


Stealing the Darkheart

by sweetsunray



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Mysticism, Political Alliances, Romantic Friendship, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 193,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsunray/pseuds/sweetsunray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill survives the massacres in the Riverlands. At Castle Black he reveals to Melisandre that the rescued Arya is not the true Arya. Both the Acting Commander and Melisandre send him on a mission to save Westeros from the Cold Children of the Great Other by stealing and retrieving the Darkheart acolyte of the Many Faced God in Braavos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ser Blacksmith of the Light

He watched the stars twinkle far above him. The stars were the same everywhere, here or in Westeros. The captain who took him aboard to bring him here had explained to him that stars could be used to navigate. He had watched the stars almost every night then aboard the ship, unable to sleep. He had no sea legs. If it were up to him, he preferred to stay on land and walk on both of his feet. He could ride a horse. He had learned it out of necessity, but he had only known two people to be a natural at it. One was a man of the North, the other a girl, no more than a child. Harwin was dead, and the girl...

 _Winter is coming. Winter has come and is here to stay for a long while yet._ Gendry huddled in his fur cloak to protect himself from the freezing night. The wolf fur was warm though. There had been plenty of wolves killed, and yet the damnable pack that ravaged the Riverlands had been growing nevertheless. _Winter and wolf_ , words and sigil of the Starks of the North.

He had cared little for that House. "You can still make swords if you want," she had said to him. "You can make them for my brother Robb when we get to Riverrun," seemingly not troubled that both Wolf and Lion raped and killed the same innocent folk who never asked for war. He had been so angry with her. And later he had been angry with her for suddenly preferring Beric's squire over his company - the little lady and the little lord. He had been angry with her for running away, for vanishing before they could have sold her safely to her uncle - his headstrong, murderous M'lady dressed like a boy. And then he had been angry at the Freys and the Lannisters. If it were not for them, the Hound would probably have delivered her safely to her beloved brother and mother.

Moved by Beric's ideals, he had joined the Brotherhood. So, he stayed with those who made him a knight. He had tried to assuage both his hatred for the Freys and the Lions by helping Lady Stoneheart to her victims as well as serve Beric's ideals by watching over the orphans with Willow. The Hound had slain Polliver and the Tickler in the company of a little boy in the same inn. Deep down, he hoped that perhaps one day she might turn up at their doorstep and find shelter with them. After all she was an orphan too after they cut her mother's throat at the Twins. Willow reminded him somewhat of her: as willful and as bossy. It dulled the pain of the certainty that Arya must have been dead, like so many others.

The first time he had killed, he drove a spear through a man's back. He barely knew why he had done that. He hated Brienne the Beauty on sight along with Ser Hyle and the Lannister squire when she arrived at the Orphan's inn. Knights traveling so carefree through the Riverlands by then could only be allies of the Freys or Lannisters, certainly those carrying a Valeryan sword. He had sent word out immediately to his brothers to come and fetch her. Not her kindness to the orphans, or her attempt to talk with him made him hate her any less. But before the Brotherhood could arrive, the remaining Brave Companions came, and she was intent on protecting them against these no-man's-friends. There had never been any love lost between himself and Biter or Rorge. He still delivered Brienne to his brother knights, but wanted nothing to do with the hanging. Lady Stoneheart's trials were a mockery in comparison to Beric's. She was not named Mother Merciless for nothing.

Lem had told him about her hanging afterwards. Once, Brienne had sworn fealty to M'lady's mother to bring her girls back to her, in exchange for Jaime Lannister. But the eldest daughter, Sansa, who had been a hostage at King's Landing had fled the capital when the false king Joffrey was murdered, before both Brienne and Jaime had returned. And of course, the youngest daughter Arya was nowhere near King's Landing. _She was with me, on the King's Road, in Harrenhall, with the Brotherhood, first as Arry, then Weasel, and Nan and Squad_. Brienne had searched all through the Riverlands and the Saltpans for Sansa, following around the Hound's trail, not knowing she was following Arya's trail. Lady Stoneheart had given her a choice – to bring Jaime Lannister to her or hang. She had chosen to capture Jaime.

"Keep your mouth shut about Arya to Lady Stoneheart," said Lem. She was not to know that her youngest daughter had been with them and that they had let the Hound steal her from them. That was fine by Gendry. The Hangwoman filled him with dread. More brothers left, and those who remained turned more and more into men Gendry disliked. Thoros had taken to drinking again and Lem started to act like the namesake of the helmet he had acquired. But Brienne did as promised. She lured Jaime Lannister into a trap. "The girl's been wed to the Bolton bastard", Lem told him afterwards, "Sent safely back to Winterfell." That was what Jaime had believed. _Well at least, she will be happy to finally be back home_ , Gendry had thought. But it had made him bitter to think that another bastard got to marry her.

Capturing Jaime had been the last stroke for the Brotherhood. Jaime's army and the Freys finally joined forces to root them out. The Inn was put to the torch while he had been on an errant. He had returned to find nothing but burned rubble and children put to the spear. His last act there was to close Willow's dead eyes. The Inn of the Kneeling Man had also been put to the torch. There was nothing left anymore to stay for. Not long before the Freys and Lannisters purged the woods of the Brotherhood, Thoros had told him, while miserably drunk, that soon he needed to seek the Priestess of Light. "Find the Red Priestess Melisandre, Gendry, in the North."

But the only way there was by sea. He would be stupid to try to pass the Twins and the Neck. He had left years ago by the road and it had nearly cost him his own life several times. He knew of only one safe place, untouched by the war, even though he had no love for the seven Gods. He sought shelter at the Quiet Isle, while waiting for the arrival of a ship to take him North, in exchange for his skill. The silent brothers had no need for armor, helmets or swords, but their horses needed shooing. He recognized the Hound's destrier instantly. His owner had been long dead and buried already.

The Captain of the first ship he ever sailed on delivered him at White Harbor. There was war too in the North. He had been tempted to seek Winterfell. Perhaps M'lady could speak for him to her husband. After all Winterfell needed rebuilding. "Stay away from Winterfell," people told him. "It is not the Wolf banner that flies there anymore, but a Flayed Man." It had not solely been the Freys who betrayed the King in the North, but the Boltons of the Dreadfort as well. The legitimized bastard was a monster, people whispered. The Bastard had starved Lady Donella Hornwood once - ate her own fingers, the poor thing. He hunted women for sport with dogs. Ned's little girl had fared little better they said. But every time someone mentioned some of the most unspeakable tales, they would say, "The North remembers."

There were other rumors - that the youngest Stark boys that Theon the Turncloak supposedly had killed were not truly dead. They had been seen. And Stannis Baratheon was marching on Winterfell to oust the Boltons once and for all. The Trueborn King Stannis had already freed Deepwood Motte for the Glovers and had come to the Night's Watch aid against the invasion of wildlings. Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall, had been given to the fire. But while they rooted for Stannis Baratheon, they had no love for him. He served neither the Old Gods nor the Seven. He believed in one god only - the Lord of Light – and was under the spell of a red sorceress.

Thoros of Myr had told him to find the red priestess, but White Harbor had been the most peaceful area he had been in for the past years. He was weary of war and not eager to walk right into the middle of a battlefield. The tale of M'lady had saddened him deeply. He felt ashamed that he had been so angry so often with her when she talked of her brother, when in fact he admired her for her courage and her obnoxious stubbornness, while her deadly determination for vengeance had scared him for her. He knew for a fact that she had killed long before he ever had. But every time he heard the phrase, "The North Remembers", he grew to understand more and more that Arya truly had been of the North – wild, headstrong, vengeful. A she-wolf they called it in the North. The other phrase he regularly heard was, "There must always be a Stark at Winterfell." It was as if the Starks were like gods almost to the common folk. All those phrases sounded like his own prayer, "The night is dark and full of terrors."

Only when he heard rumor that the sorceress was actually in Castle Black of the Night's Watch and that Lady Arya Stark had been rescued and sent to the Wall, Gendry finally found the determination to go there, together with new recruits of the Night's Watch. The recruits he had traveled with from King's Landing had been criminals and several poor buggers like him from Flea Bottom - downtrodden boys and men with no alternative. But the recruits from White Harbor were of a different cut. They saw the Night's Watch as an army to be proud of, even if it meant never to be wed or bed a woman. For the first time, since the Brotherhood of the Banners, he traveled with men who sought to protect the kingdom itself. And they would not be outlaws. It was even said that Ned Stark's bastard was Lord Commander, and he was young still.

They arrived at Castle Black - through the harshest snow blizzards - with the Lord Commander, Jon Snow, in a sleep near death. Some of his men had tried to stab him. By some miracle he had survived, but not regained consciousness yet. It was whispered his soul lived in his wolf for the time being, a great white direwolf who rested by him in his chamber. And the red priestess saw to his needs. The rebels had been long executed, after a fight broke out over the assassination attempt, as well as between wildlings and brothers of the Night's Watch.

Despite the upset over the Lord Commander, and the disarray at Castle Black sheltering women and wildlings, the new recruits were welcomed and immediately put to training. Their numbers had dwindled to lower than four hundred. During the nightly ritual held for the lord of light, which Gendry attended nightly praying for the day his lady would come out, he caught the eye of the Red Priestess Melisandre through the flames. She often watched him from the landing upstairs of her room, when he trained as a recruit, until one night she invited him to her living quarters. She had wanted to know everything about him, about his parents, where he came from, and how he came to know the God of Light. It was the first and only time he ever came to tell his story, though he could not tell her who his father had been.

It was she who had brought him to meet the rescued Arya Stark. The girl had a disfigured face – her nose taken by frostbite. No wonder she always stayed indoors. A great pity, for she might have been pretty with one.

"That is not M'lady," he had said, and the girl started to weep. "Arya is younger, not as tall, and she has a different face." He felt ashamed to mention the poor girl's looks.

"You have not seen her for what? A year? Two years?" said Melisandre. "Girls grow and get older."

It had been more than a year. "Aye, but it is not she." The girl with the disfigured nose looked at him with pleading eyes. Arya would never have pleaded like that, nor weep. "Arya has grey eyes, short hair, like a boy, and full of anger. It is not she." Gendry knew then that Arya Stark had died at the Saltpans after all.

Melisandre had laid her hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. "And what makes you so sure that the Arya you met was the true Arya." Her soft breath had given him shivers across his spine. The hair in his neck had stood upright and he had felt a stirring he had not experienced before.

"Harwin!" he had said. "The son of the master of horses of Winterfell was a member of our Brotherhood. He identified her instantly. Used to help her learn to ride, and she was one of the best horse riders I knew, though she was not even ten."

The eyes of the girl in the room widened at the mentioning of Harwin's name. Her weeping became blubbering and she crawled to his feet, wrapping her arms around his legs. "Please, Ser, have mercy on me. Help me. I don't want to be sent back to my husband."

His heart broke for the girl. He had never seen someone to be pitied as this girl, and he had seen many girls and boys to be pitied.

Melisandre bowed over the girl and caressed her long dark hair. "Do not fear, little girl. We will not send you back. But you must tell me your real name."

"J-Jeyne Poole, My Lady."

"And how did you come to be Arya Stark?"

"I was the steward's daughter, Sansa Stark's best friend, raised along with Sansa and Arya to read, write, and embroider. I traveled with them to King's Landing. But after they came to kill Lord Eddard's men, they locked me up with Sansa, beat me and gave me to Lord Baelish. He had me trained and told me to pretend to be Arya Stark so I could be wed. They told me Arya was dead, and that I had to take her place, or I would be nothing more than a whore." She started to weep again, and the red priestess laid her to rest.

"We will not speak of it to anyone. You are safe. Rest, my dear."

"But w-what if Jon Snow wakes up? He will know too. He will be angry. He loved Arya the most."

"When or how he will wake again will be for the Lord of Light to decide. And he would not turn out his sister's best friend out into the cold." Melisandre stroked the girl's head. "You are still important and have a part to play. You may be the sole one who can ever identify Sansa Stark if and when she's found."

Melisandre had invited him every night again to learn more about Thoros of Myr, how he had been able to revive Beric so many times from the dead, and that the dead Lady Catelyn could have been brought back to the living. One night, Gendry had found the courage to ask her why she did not do the same for Jon Snow. She took him to see the sleeping Lord Commander. The white wolf had followed his every move when he entered the room. Gendry had been surprised to see a man so young to be at such a high ranking position already. Jon Snow looked no older than him. But he understood why Melisandre could not bring Jon back from the dead. He was not dead.

"Tell him your stories," Melisandre had said. "Tell him of Arya. It might revive him."

He had done as the priestess had commanded. He visited the Lord Commander daily under the guidance of Melisandre, telling stories – fearful ones, angry tales, and funny stories. He confessed all his feelings, his annoyance, his admirations, his fears, his hurts and finally his love for M'lady to the sleeping Jon Snow. It was by retelling it all, reliving all the small moments he had laughed with her, pestered her, but also chided her that it finally dawned on him that he had loved Arya Stark. It was an innocent love born out of companionship and hardships. They had been children. And yet, though there had been no desire for her, he had felt miserable about himself around her, for he wished he could wed her one day and there would never be any chance for it, him being a bastard from Flea Bottom. The more he had grown to love her, the more he was angry with her, the more he realized his wish was pure folly and a fantasy that could never become a reality. That was why he begged the Brotherhood to accept him. He wanted to hurt her feelings, because she was inadvertently hurting him. He wanted her to go away and leave him be. But since the day she vanished he had carried with him the guilt that his anger and choices might have caused her to run away and be lost forever.

When he confessed all those buried feelings he had never been able to admit to himself before to Jon Snow, the white direwolf, Ghost, had come to him and laid his head against his. He had wondered then whether Jon Snow's soul was truly inside the great beast and if it was a sign from Jon that he understood and forgave him. He never knew, and he still did not. By the time he was sent away on his mission, Jon Snow still slept.

He had made the vow of the Night's Watch, without regret. He would neither marry nor lie with a woman and bastard a child. He was Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill of the Night's Watch now. But it had been Melisandre who had given him his mission, by the leave of the Acting Commander. She had told him of the eternal battle between The Lord of Light and The Great Other. The cold children of the Great Other were gathering an army of wights North of the wall, and the Long Night was almost upon them.

She had told him, "You are a man of the Night's Watch, but also the sole one who truly believes in the Lord of Light. You have seen his miracles. Your work for the realm does not lie here at the Wall, but in Essos. You are the sole man who can steal the Darkheart of the Great Other away from him."

"And who is it that I must steal from the Great Other and where can I find this Darkheart?" he had asked.

"You must go to Braavos, Ser Gendry. The person you seek is a member of the guild of the House of Black and White, training to become a Faceless Man, an assassin who bestows the gift of death for the Many Faced God. I have seen the Darkheart often in the flames, but did not know who it was until you appeared. You must find Arya Stark, Ser Gendry, and return her to the light, to life, love and her brother."

So he took the last ship from Eastwatch to Braavos, before Eastwatch was attacked, without much advice, other than that he had to go to the temple of the Lord of Light to learn more about the guild and cult of the Faceless men and that he had the license by the Acting Commander to do all what was necessary to find Arya.

Braavos was like King's Landing, except that it smelled better, there often was a fog and it was much colder in Braavos. And of course there were the canals, with bridges and the barges for transport. Nobody knew he belonged to the Night's Watch or that he was one of the knights of Hollow Hill. But they did jokingly called him Ser Blacksmith of the Light. Most of the time he seemed to have forgotten what he was here for. He was nowhere closer to the goal of finding Arya than when he first started out. Worse, at his first visit of the Temple of the Lord of Light he learned that it was an impossible task. One could not enter the House of Black and White, unless if it was to ask for the "gift", pay for the gift, or to become a Faceless Man. He was not keen to die and he was too old to enter the guild as an apprentice. And Faceless Men could assume any identity they wanted. If Arya was here, he would never be able to recognize her. She could be sitting right outside the shop, amongst the whores who always came to tease him, and he would never know it.


	2. Lovely Lilly

Lilly's feet were dangling from the crate while she was eating her meat pie. The flaked crust crunched when she bit in it, and next followed the taste of minced meat mixed with nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves. Her brown, woolen skirts and pettycoat were lifted high enough to make any passing sailor glance at her lovely ankles. The fog had lifted enough for a pale sun to burn through. And even here, in the Steel Canal the air smelled of wind and salt and fresh fish. Britt stood next to her, swaying her hips in her skirt of sturdy wool and revealing part of her cleavage in her thick woolen jacket, not for the sailors or sellswords passing by, but in the hope to catch the eye of the young man hammering away on the anvil. Britt was the pretty one, tall and slim waist, with nice womanly breasts, wide hips and long blonde hair.

"Hey, Ser Light," Britt shouted over the heads of the men drumming, when he inspected the breast plate he had been banging back into shape. "Don't you like what you see? I'll do you for free! You don't want to be a virgin forever, do you?"

His mouth curled in a sly smile, but he never lifted his eyes, laid the armor down and started to beat on it again. He had the art of tinkering down - in between the steady beats, the hammer fell repeatedly on the metal, and it sounded like little bells. 

Lilly giggled. "Well, at least he smiled, Britt."

Britt turned around to meet Lilly's eyes with a smile, cocking her eyebrows. "I'll win him one day. No one ever has turned Britt's offer down."

"He has turned everybody's offer down, so far." _Including boys_ , Lilly thought.

It was a game. There was a bet amongst the whores - especially the younger ones - who would be the first to finally make him succumb to spend half an hour with them in one of the alleys. They all loved him and all wanted to be his first. They hung around the open smithy, would bend over the front bench to make him have a good look. They'd crawl on his lap when he came for a drink of ale at the inn, or even sit on the table in front of him, spread their legs and lift their skirts to expose themselves in all their glory to him. But he either plucked them out of his lap or turned his back on them with a smile.

Britt looked her up and down, and in a more serious tone said, "He likes you, Lilly. I've seen him smile at you, last night, and he gave you a big tip too." She whispered conspiringly, "Maybe he likes pretty, little, redheads, with him visiting the Red Temple so often. A pity you have not bled yet. I've heard Fat Mama say that you could make a lot of money."

"Or maybe he just gets his kicks from the Red Whores already," japed Lilly.

"We Ragman's whores are as good as any other," Britt said haughtily.

Lilly was no whore, not yet at least. And she was no real redhead either. She just served at the Inn of the Green Eel and cleaned the rooms and sheets for the whores. But she knew how to entice customers and lure them into the alley if she cared to. She knew how to kiss a man and grab his cock. She also knew how to dispose of bodies in the canal. If she took a man to an alley, it was only for the gift. And it was not something she wanted to have to do to the Westeros armorer smith.

He was very pretty to look at, especially when he was working with a bare chest and his leather apron, and his muscular arms and forehead glistened with sweat. His hear was as black as coal and he had friendly eyes as blue as a fogless sky. He had a jaw like an anvil and the cutest dimpled smile. Though he certainly was of age, he still looked young. Lilly could see the boy in him still. The whores called him shy, for he spoke rarely and kept to himself. It just made him mysteriously sexy, especially since by all accounts he took no one to bed. She did not really believe he lay with the Red Whores. He did not gamble, drank only one or two ales per night. He simply sat at a bench and watched other people get drunk, sing and grab a woman. Little was known about him, except that he had arrived on a ship from Westeros a year ago, probably to escape from the wars that were tearing the Seven Kingdoms apart. And though he claimed to be a knight, he offered his services to old Smith Tom Hammer at Ragman's Harbor and visited the Red Temple of R'hllor. These facts had earned him his nick name. Few people knew his real name, not even the whores. But Lilly knew – Gendry, Gendry Waters – although she could not remember who had ever mentioned it to her. She just knew.

There were plenty of followers these days of the Red Temple, what with preachers who fled from Volantis claiming the Dragon Queen who freed Slaver's Bay was Azor Ahai. Lilly found it ironic. The priests and temple whores and warriors were bought Slaves of R'hllor. The Dragon Queen's quest at Slaver's Bay had earned quite a lot of support in Braavos, the city that had been founded 800 years ago and had vowed that no man, woman or child could ever be a slave. Many adventurous men and sailor had left Braavos to join her fight to free slaves in Essos - even after she had vanished only to reappear with a united horde of Dothraki - and later when she departed to invade Westeros with her dragons. Lilly thought they were all fools. By all accounts there was little left to conquer there after four years of war or was it five already.

"Come on, Lilly, our shift starts soon." Britt took her by the arm.

Lilly jumped down from the crate. "Better luck tomorrow, Britt." She waved at the armorer smith when they passed. He looked up and smiled at them both. Their eyes met and his were so blue that it gave her a stirring, and yet they held a deeply, hidden sadness that made her pity him. She knew from those eyes that he had seen things, horrible things. Perhaps one day that sadness might bring him to the waif for the gift. His face would look pretty on the wall.

It was a busy night at the Green Eel, both for Lilly as well as the whores. Men slapped her arse or ogled her tiny evidence that she soon would be a woman. But if they tried to get their hands under her skirt she would show them the fig or call them an ass's pizzle. Sometimes she felt like a juggling fool with a man shouting in her ears, women roaring in raucious laughter, and her needing to squeeze herself through the throng of customers or avoid tripping over outstretched legs and boots, while carrying pints and pitchers. Drinks got spilled. Fights had to be stopped. Songs were sung in a choir of rough voices and out of tune, most often not even the same song the volunteering bard of the night tried to please the crowd with. Lilly did not mind. She had her eyes on the two men ignoring their surroundings and talking without pause. The tall, fat one was a merchant of Pentos with a Bravosi accent, a forked beard, pig's eyes and fat cheeks. The suntanned one, with the tattoos, could have fit thrice in the Pentos merchant. He had a beaked nose and black, slick hair reaching to his shoulders and a mean smile. Vogarro Paynymion was from Volantis, a cousin of a prior Triate of Volantis. The merchant was called Illyrio Mopatis. This was not the first meeting in the Green Eel. They had regularly met the past month and leaving her big tips.

She set the wine cups and a pitcher before them and curtsied with a smile. The pig's eyes stared without reserve at her bosom. Britt had grabbed them once. "They are small, Lilly, but before long you will have a fine pair of them," she had said. Lilly winked at Illyrio and he gave her a wide smile, displaying all his yellow crooked teeth. Vogarro ignored her completely and sniffed his nose as if to signal her she smelled awful. It was not her fault that half her dress was drowned in splattered stale ale. And she thought Illyrio's perfumes were worse. No matter how much he used, they could never truly hide the foul stench of his flesh.

"Pour the wine, pretty Lilly." Illyrio said, while his fingers groped for her arse and kneaded the right cheek with one hand, and he stroked one of his oiled yellow prongs of his beard, so that the rubies, saphires and yellow tiger stones of the many rings glimmered in the light of the oil lamp on the table.

She lifted the pitcher and poured the wine into Vogarro's cup but someone pushed her from behind and as clumsy as she was, she managed to fling its content over Vogarro's pretty, silk clothes. Illyrio laughed heartily at that, while Vogarro called her names in High Valyrian, rather than his local Bastard Valyrian. Of course he did not expect a tavern wench to understand the noble language of old, doomed Valyria. But the waif had instructed her in that language too, once she had become fluent in the Braavosi bastard Valyrian. The Trade Talk of Ragman's Harbor she had simply picked up on the streets and canals of Braavos.

Lilly blushed and stuttered apologies to him, using her skirt to dry his silks. Vogarro shoved her away.

"Just pour again, lovely Lilly," said Illyrio."It wasn't your fault. It was that oaf bumping into you."

And while Vogarro vigorously tried to wipe the stains from his clothes with the napkin that Illyrio held out for him, Lilly managed to drop a crystal of poison unseen into Vogarro's cup with his wine. She then poured the wine for Illyrio without any further accidents. Lilly did not wonder who wanted Vogarro dead or why. There used to be a time when No One would try to come up with a reason for him to die. She could argue she did not like Vogarro's arrogance or his sour, mean mouth and eyes. But it made little difference. Lilly did as she was told. The kindly man had given her Vogarro's name, told her where to find him and presented her a pretty face - though not as pretty as her own, the kindly man had said - as well as room and board with Fat Mama. This gift had not been much of a challenge, let alone a test, apart from accomplishing it in a crowded tavern.

Illyrio raised his cup. "On the future elections." He downed the cup in one go. Vogarro followed the merchant's example but only took a sparing sip.

Lilly apologized one final time before turning away, knowing that the kindly man would confirm her how Vogarro had never woken again come morning. "Valar Morghulis," her lips mouthed without anyone hearing or seeing it. Lilly set her empty plateau on the inn's counter and walked through the door leading through the kitchen where the cook was batting the ears of the washer boy with a spoon for sticking his finger in her pastry to taste it. She undid her front apron and hung it over the nail at the wall, right beside the backdoor, and walked out, shouting goodnight at the cook. She would miss Illyrio's tips and Lovely Lilly. All that she needed to do now was to pick up her stuff at Fat Mama's and go _home_.


	3. A Westeros Peacock

Living and working in Braavos, Gendry had grown accustomed to the language, their ideas, culture, especially regarding the guild of the Faceless Men. They walked plainly in their white or black garb in the streets, and it usually made everyone else on their path scurry, all adults. The first months, he had thought cynically, _what great assassins they are, if they are so easily recognizable and make everyone run_. That made no sense of course. It started to dawn on him that the apprentices in the city probably were not wearing the typical cloaks, but disguises. Changing faces was one thing, but they could not turn a child of eleven into a grown man or grown woman. People could trick others with their tone of voice, but not their accent. He reminded himself what age Arya had to be by now and how that might have affected her height as well as her bodily development. He was not sure of her age now. One moment with the Brotherhood she claimed she was twelve, the other that she had just turned eleven. _She might actually have been ten when she lied about her age, just as well_. So, it was anyone's guess. But he estimated that by now she must have been somewhere about thirteen. And that was the age when eventually little girls - who could be mistaken for boys previously - could fool nobody anymore. Nor would she be able to hide her Westeros origin, just as he could not, even if she was fluent in Bravoosi.

When he realized he could eliminate at least three quarter of the city on that account alone, he started to visit a set of inns regularly. He strolled around the docks of every harbor. He watched mummer plays in different theatres and learned to see through the disguises. Many events from Westeros made it into performances of the theatres. There was Cersei's Perversions that ended with her being dragged through the streets naked; and a play called Winterfell's Bastard that had been wildly popular. But Gendry never went to see the latter play. He knew the real story behind it. It was enough to know King Stannis had slain the Bastard by some trickery, entering the castle disguised as Karstark and Frey soldiers.

Many street children or young apprentices ran around town. But Gendry made a habit of it to learn who they were, where they came from, where they usually could be found. And they would know him as the helpful smith who would protect them from bullies. Over time he had started to notice a pattern. For months a certain child working or begging would frequent a certain area to then disappear without anyone knowing the better of it. Most people did not care about street orphans, neither about the ones who were there nor the ones that went missing. Gendry cared though. Some children had truly died, their face lost forever, but others would appear in a completely different area, different garb and name. Some of them would not even recognize him. Sometimes these children vanished shortly after someone important had died untimely. Only a very few of those children actually had a Westeros accent.

Gendry had learned to look for truth behind the lies, and it became easier with time, as easy as it had been for him to know Arry had not been a boy, but a girl. He had his suspicions about the serving girl at the Green Eel , the one the whores called Lovely Lilly. She had appeared out of nowhere two or three months ago. Her age seemed right, and so did her body type - not so tall and quite petite. She had a different face and red hair, but that did not dissuade him. Her Bravoosi was fluent, but her accent was undeniably one of the common tongue. His gut told him she was not truly who she claimed to be. _She might be Arya_ , he told himself over and over. But if she was, surely she would recognize him. And of that he saw no sign. Sure, she knew him by hanging out in front of the forge with Britt, Ella and Beth and him being a customer at the Green Eel. He even smiled encouragingly at her and gave her a big tip. But she had never given him any particular recognition. When she waved or smiled at him, he detected no flicker of the past in her.

Still, he studied who she served or paid attention too. One customer had been found floating in the canals, killed by a blade some time ago. People supposed he had been killed during a duel at Moon Pool. But Gendry was less sure of it. He had seen how she had let herself be pulled into his lap, had kissed him and not much later had gone outside with him. And Gendry was certain she was not one of the whores. She was too young for that. If she had killed that customer, he deserved it no doubt. Grown men who fondled a child deserved all they got. Very recently some man of nobility and importance from Volantis had died, found dead in bed. The man's heart had just stopped beating, even though he was not even past his thirties. That man had frequented the Green Eel regularly to discuss with his partner, and Lovely Lilly had served them last. Since then, Gendry had not seen Lilly anymore, not at the shop, not at the Green Eel.

Britt sauntered over to him. "What are you making, Ser Light."

"An order on armor for the Sealord." He did not look up. "Where's Lilly? You two used to hang out together all the time."

"See, I told her you were into her. You like redheads then?"

He shrugged. "I just wondered."

"Liar!" said Britt. "I could dye my hair red for you if you want to," she then said suggestively in a husky voice.

"So, you could win the bet on me?"

Britt laughed at that, bearing her neck. "Hmmm, you know about that."

"Everybody knows."

"I guess." Then her tone became serious. "I don't know where Lilly is. One day she just failed to come to work. I asked. First Fat Mama said she was sick. But if you want her, you might be lucky, because Fat Mama later told me the Nightingale took her under her wing at the House of Seven Lamps. Perhaps you could be each other's first, if you're quick about it." She leaned against one of the wooden posts.

Gendry narrowed his eyes. _Lord of Light, I hope this cannot be true, not yet._ The pit of his stomach shrunk disgusted by the idea of Arya being trained to become a courtesan, especially that young still. It seemed a fate no less pitiful than Jeyne Poole's. "I'm sorry she was not such a nice friend after all, Britt. She didn't even say goodbye," he feigned sympathy.

Britt swung around the post, holding it with an outstretched arm. In a bored tone, she said, "Pooh, oh, well." Britt turned around and off she went with a sailor who had accosted her. Britt was not that much older than Arya, he knew. _Fourteen maybe, hopefully fifteen for her sake_ , Gendry thought.

He had never much liked the Seven Lamps. It was supposed to be one of the better establishments of Ragman Harbor, but it only meant there was one Nightingale being admired by many bravo peacocks that were looking for a duel in all shades of the rainbow and you had to air your clothes for a night and a day to get rid of the incense smell. At the Green Eel no one truly minded that he wore modest green wool and leather jerkins, but for the Seven Lamps he would have to wear accursed silk, some flashy cloak and fancy britches. Lem with his lemon cloak would have felt he was too modestly dressed if he had ever managed to get to Braavos, and the Bannerless would have all laughed at him if they could see him in his Seven Lamps attire.

He once had made the mistake to underdress when he first arrived. He ended up being harassed by bravos with their rapiers looking for a fight and barely managed to get out of it alive. A mummer's troupe of Izembaro celebrating their premier of a play about Sansa Stark being wed to the Imp interfered on his behalf. They pointed out to the bravos that Gendry clearly was from Westeros and did not know the customs yet. One of their child actresses advised him then in the common tongue that if he intended on staying and living, he ought to acquire more colorful attire. When she spoke, for a moment his heart had beaten rapidly in his chest. _Arya_ , he had thought in a flash, before seeing a face that was pretty enough, but nothing like Arya. Mercy - short for Mercedene - had been her name. But that was long before he started to look for patterns. _She could have been Arya as well_.

Not long after, there had been some scandal about a guard of an emissary from King's Landing on business with the Braavos' Iron Bank that had gone missing during the performance of The Black Hand at Izembaro's theatre. And the rumor went that the guard had murdered one of Izembaro's young actresses in some dingy room after he had raped her and had fled afterwards. "No wonder", people said, "these men of King's Landing are so perverted with a queen who fucked every of her Kingsguard and put her incestuous brood on the throne." It was also said that on account of the murderous guard alone, the Iron Bank had refused to deal with such disgusting criminals any further.

After Britt's tip, Gendry visited the Seven Lamps more regularly, even wearing a rapier himself along with his silks, even if he had no idea how to fight with one. _A Westeros Peacock, that's what I look like now._ But a longsword was too much of an invite for a bravo to want to challenge him, and not wearing a sword was out of the question in that establishment. And if nowadays some bravo supposed him to not dress colorful enough, the others would prevent him from picking a fight. "That's the Westeros Ser Blacksmith," they would say. "You know, the one from Tom Hammer, where we order our swords."

No self respecting bravo would walk around without those fine, long rapiers – _long needles_. Arya used to own something similar, but without the ornamental hilt, before Polliver took it from her. And she had fittingly called it Needle. But long needles could kill just as well, as long your opponent was not wearing any armor. He admired the hilts though. While outrageously ornamental at times, they protected the hands. There was no need for gauntlets with those hilts, and gauntlets were more time consuming and costly to make than a hilt.

Originally, Tom had hired Gendry to help him out with the customers that arrived from everywhere outside of Braavos. Only a bravo would swear by their needles. But most foreigners preferred longswords. And Gendry had more experience with those than Tom did. But Tom was getting really old - too old to do any regular work. Age had eaten his muscles away. Tom was contented with Gendry managing the shop mostly by himself. When Gendry showed curiosity for the bravo hilts though, Tom had taught him how to make them. And only very recently he had made a new hilted rapier for the First Sword. In his own time and with his own material, he was working on a new type of sword, a combination of a longsword blade and a rapier hilt. Such a sword would have the best of both.

Every night he looked for Lilly at the Seven Lamps, meanwhile hoping she would not be there. To his relief, he found no trace of Lilly though and nobody had been hired recently. Lovely Lilly had vanished. But at least it confirmed his suspicions. All he had to do now was wait until someone else would appear in Braavos amongst the young street or inn workers, or some new actress in a mummer's troupe. He would see right through her disguise next time.


	4. The Winter Rose

A Girl had become A Woman. It had started with a dull feeling below her belly and she had woken to brown bloody smears on her sheets. For a short while clueless, she stared at it and her dark bloodied fingers. And then it had dawned on her - her body was that of a woman now. Each assassination so far had always been a test on what else she could give up of herself, in order to become No One. And the last two years she had often been set to work in a mummer's farce where she had been required to use her sex hovering between that of a girl-child and a woman. Anywhere else than her home a woman would be wedded and bedded. But no doubt her next assassination would require using her maidenhood in order to kill. A female assassin was rare, but very valuable. Whores, courtesans and mistresses could go where men could not. More, the target would just come to them. _Better have it over with as quickly as may be._

But deep down inside of her something - or someone - rebelled, the hardest it ever had so far. While A Girl - _nay A Woman now_ \- wished to suppress this other, she started to shake and tremble, her throat tightened so that she gasped for air and a great pressure built up behind her eyes. She could not stop it. The other would not be denied. An immense sadness came over her. Tears came violently, with hiccups and bellowing. She threw her face in her bedding, hoping to muffle it. Her fists gripped her blankets and she pulled them against her stomach. She pulled curled her legs up against her. " _The last of my innocence! The last!"_ the other screamed in her head. _Father would be stricken! And Jon! Jon would be angry!_ She had not thought of them for many, many years. Their faces floated before her mind's eye. _They chopped his head off! They killed him! And Robb! And mother! My sister raped by that Imp! Brann crippled and flayed!_ Memory after memory overcame her - Syrio's final stand, the flight on the King's Road, the horror of the God's Eye, Harrenhall, creepy soft voiced Roose Bolton, the Hound, her utter loneliness when everybody abandoned her… It was not the anger of Arya that fought against that final step into doom, but the deep sadness that she had never allowed herself to feel for herself. _I was Arya! I am Arya!_ Her true self did not want to be denied its existence any longer. _I am! Don't you throw me away just like that! I was just a little girl, surviving. They tried to kill me, sell me, use me, and I survived it all. If you kill me yourself, what was the point?_

Arya wept and wept, for the first time mourning herself. She did not know how long she had lay there like that. It seemed like a very long time, before she calmed enough to stretch her legs. She turned and lay on her back and looked at her cell's ceiling. There was a calmness inside of her now. She wiped away the wetness of her eyes and cheeks and sighed. _I am Arya._ That thought was enough to find stillness within. She heaved a deep breath and then let out a long sigh. _What now?_ She could tell the kindly man that she would leave the guild. She could just step out, and the world would be at her feet. She could hide her womanhood for a while. But she knew she would do neither. _Nay, I will tell him that A Girl is A Woman now. I will use my No One. I can be No One in order to be Arya_. She finally flung her legs of her bed, planted her feet firmly on the ground and stood upright. _Still as water_. _Quiet as a shadow._ She slipped on her ever so soft acolyte robe and walked out of her cell to find the kindly man as he would make the morning round. She knew how to be No One.

He eyed her in silence for a while. She could see he was surveying her. _He knows something has changed._ She knew she was changed.

"Who are you?" It seemed like a very long time that the kindly man had asked her this. He used to interrogate her about who she was for months, when she first came to live here. But then, after a while, he had been convinced enough she was No One and did not ask anymore.

 _Still as a pillar._ "No One." She said it in that newfound calmness.

"You lie," he said. "You are Arya Stark of Winterfell only looking for a home still. Not everyone can serve. There is no shame in that. You can turn around and just walk out and be Arya. If you want to become an actress I can help you. If you want a husband, let me find you one. If you want to return to Winterfell, I can get you on a boat to White Harbor."

He had not used that name to her for over a year she thought. Back then it alarmed her. She always wanted to prove, convince him that she was No One, that she could serve. But that pride had left her. She simply blinked at him as if he was speaking of someone she did not know. _Still as water._ "Who is Arya?" she said.

"Hmmm." For a moment longer he stared at her inquisitively, but then slowly he nodded. "Why have you come?"

"A Girl is a Woman."

"A girl is no woman without losing her maidenhood," retorted the kindly man. "You will have to give it up in order to serve and you may be too proud to give it up for someone who is not your husband, nor your lover."

She wanted to hiss and bite her lip. She had no interest in having a husband, nor a lover. _Still as stone._ He was goading her, but he could not trap her, not anymore. The kindly man assumed she lied, and only her response could ever betray her. _I can fool him. He does not know._ "A Girl will give it up." She knew she would.

"You lie. It is only Arya's pride speaking." But his claim evoked no response from her. More silently he said, "You can remain a girl. Not every girl must become a woman. There is no shame in that. Turn around and walk out and be Arya again and join the Silent Sisters of the Seven."

"A girl is No One. A Woman is No One. It makes no difference," she said. She understood that now. _It made no difference, because Arya was Arya, whoever she was._ _Still as stone._ "I serve." She was sure of it now.

The kindly man nodded slowly at her. "You will attend to your temple duties until the time you will be asked to serve, and later you can tell me of three new things you have learned."

For several moons she served only inside with her own face. She washed and combed the dead and picked their pockets. She stood still at supper and meetings as a cupbearer. She followed the kindly man in the morning to inspect the dead. She was not picked for any gift. The waif instructed her to count her bleeding days and the non bleeding days and taught her about potions she may be required to use in order to prevent any child growing in her womb or help her relieve the cramps. Meanwhile Umma prepared her favourites whenever she had her period and gave her warm honeyed milk in the morning and sweetened wine in the evening. At first her bleedings were not as regular. The first time they lasted only three days and never with clear blood. The second time, they returned after fourteen days. Then they lasted only two days, but were fiery red. After a while her body found a rhythm and did not deviate anymore. It was a strange thing to have a body that could tell her time and days. It was not just the bleeding that told her time, but every different day in her cycle. A woman knew her every changing body and her cycle. And so did Arya.

The kindly man failed to test her identity for several weeks. And then one day, out of the blue, he would spring her with it once more. But Arya was without pride now, without the need to prove herself. She would survive, learn and serve. She was a stealthy she-wolf lurking behind her face, just like in her dreams of the wolf pack that hunted people in a desolate winter landscape. _Winter is here._ She was an instrument, but so was the kindly man. And the cycle would repeat once more - days without calling her lie out, until he called her a liar. _Still as a wolf._

Six times she had bled before she was called on to serve and taken down the four and fifty steps down below the canals in the vault of faces. She had worn many different faces the past years - ugly faces, pretty faces, broken faces, scary faces, peaceful faces and happy faces. But always it had been the kindly man who had chosen for her.

This time, he said, "Choose the pretiest young face to your liking."

She passed pillar after pillar, stopping at one young woman's face after the other, sometimes caressing them gingerly, until finally she halted in front of one that seemed to fit her age. Palest of skin it was, almost like white alabaster, with a petite perfect nose and low forehead. "This one," Arya said.

The kindly man smiled at her. "It is a very fair face indeed, like the face of princess _."_

She sat down on the stool, closed her eyes and waited for the rush of blood rolling down her face like a curtain when he would make the cuts. She felt the sharp pain of the knife and then the fitting of the face and drank the tart liquid that would help bind the face to her own with her blood. And then the dizziness washed over her when the images came - a young man dying as another had stuck him full of holes with the pointy end. Challenged into a duel by an envious rival, her lover had died and broken hearted she had not wanted to live anymore. Before, she would have scorned women who wished to die from a broken heart. But now that she felt the weight of despair, grief and even the physically haunting pain, as if the rival had stuck as many holes into her as well, though he had not, she was not as keen to judge anymore. She did not believe that even she herself had ever felt that amount of hopelesness. Arya shook off the sensation of deep sadness of the dead girl.  As usual, her face still felt the same, but when she looked into the mirror she stared at this face of a lady, with the most fragile fair skin and grey eyes with a hint of violet, a pointy chin and low forehead - a heart shaped face.

Arya was free to pick the richest dresses that could fit her and started a new apprenticeship in Purple Harbor with the courtesan Black Pearl as Elaena Amber. Only when it was a dark moon did she return to the House and tell the kindly man three new things she had learned. Purple Harbor seemed like a completely different city. Ragman's canals sometimes seemed no more than sewers and gutters running along alleys of stamped earth and cobblestone, and hardly any bridges. People just jumped across the narrow canals. And at night only the inns and brothels shone light to help you see where to walk. But at Purple Harbor the canals were wide enough for the ornamental barges to carry the rich, with narrow, but fully paved sidewalks and wide, ornamental stone bridges. Torches and lanters hanging from walls lit the way at night. Bellegere's house was built from stone and was three floors high, with two neighbouring salons that could be joined by opening the doors that reached almost as high as the ornamentally carved and painted ceiling, and a dinner room as well as large bedrooms. Arya was used to castles and keeps for the rich, but here even citizen could own what they called a palace in Braavos.

Elaena was ushered in by a servant and shown her bedroom, adjoining that of Bellegere. And after she had some time to settle in, she was led into the room of the Black Pearl who lay languidly on a type of couched bed in her boudoir, and one leg dangling down, while she was reading a book. Few people could read and write at Ragman's, but not so in Purple Harbor. They even had shops with books no bigger than two hands filled with printed lettering. The Black Pearl yawned and delicately held her hand in front of her mouth as she did so, and then sat up. Elaena curtsied as Septa Mordane had taught her once, 

Bellegere smiled at Eaena, revealing her white teeth that contrased her dark skin of her exotic face. "Welcome, Elaena," she said. She had a deep, husky voice. "I hope your room is comfortable enough."

"Yes, Lady Bellegere."

The Black Pearl laughed. "I'm no lady, Elaena. You can just calle me Belle." She patted her hand on the couch. "Come sit with me."

Elaena did so, and instantly Bellegere took her chin and turned her face first to the left and then to the right. "You are young, but very pretty. How long since you have flowered?"

"Six months, Belle."

Bellegere's dark, laughing eyes seemed to sadden after that, but then she mustered a smile for Elaena. "Well, I have no doubt that in my company you will soon grow more comfortable into being a woman. First, I want you to pick a courtesan name. We do not use our own names. It adds to the mystery."

Elaena frowned and then said, "The Winter Rose."

Bellegere laughed. "I did not expect you to tell me one, now." She stroked Elaena's face. "But it seems a fitting one, indeed. Can you sing or dance, Elaena?"

"Only the water dance," she said.

Again Bellegere laughed. "It's alright. I'm not so fond of either two myself. Tonight you will supper with me and there will be no visitors. And then from tomorrow on you will serve me - not like little Wallys, but like a handmaiden and companion," she added quickly. "You can go to your room now or wander around in the house. I have a small library of books downstairs in the salon, if you care for reading." And then she lay back on her couch, picked up the book again and ignored her further presence. 

Being her handmaiden at first, Elaena dressed and bathed Bellegere, and the Black Pearl taught her about fabrics, colours and perfumes. How to combine them properly, but also showing her what did not work at all. Elaena never felt as if she was actually serving the famous courtesan, because Bellegere often switched roles with her, and made her test clothing as well. Sometimes they challenged each other into the wildest combinations and then walked up and down the rooms as seductively or as haughty as they could, pretending they were meeting each other on the street and greeted each other. She had male attires too and then they would dress up like bravos or a lord, and lower their voices, pretending to be men. Bellegere made her laugh and perhaps she was the first female friend she ever had in her life. She had never known how much fun another woman that beautiful and that sophisiticated could be. Sometimes, she thought that Septa Mordane would be horrified at the way Bellegere taught her how to be a confident woman. Initially, Elaena feared that Bellegere only read books that Sansa would have preferred full of silly stories of knights and ladies, but the Black Pearl had books about historical wars, about sailing and navigating, about different cultures all over the world, and even weapons. And in time, she learned about the names of Braavos' nobles and rich merchants, their preferences, their personalities, what they sought in a courtesan. And not before she was able to pick out the right dress, perfume, jewels and facial paint for the Black Pearl depending on the visitor, was she allowed to dress herself for being introduced into company.

"No," Bellegere told her day after day, and would leave her unseen and alone, away from company. Until one evening she said, "Yes," as Elaena stretched her rich, black, muslin dress before the long mirror.

She had draped a silver grey gauze around her shoulders and arms, and only wore a silver locket around her neck. The locket rested on top of her young bosom. Elaena had cut her black hair until it was no longer than her shoulders, just like Elaena Targaryan, and had dyed a lock of hair silver to match her grey eyes. She had applied facial paint to make her look vulnerable and very light of skin. Bellegere grabbed her by the hand and dragged her downstairs to meet with her guests.

Elaena was then allowed to sit with the Black Pearl and accompany her to the salon of her great house in the Pearl Harbor, to sit with her in her box to see the mummer's plays – the _Dragon Prince_ about Aegon who ousted the Lannisters from the Iron throne - or go along on a pleasure tour on her ship. Over time Black Pearl's guests would express their pleasure of seeing the Winter Flower whenever she accompanied Bellegere or greeted her with a bow whenever she walked along the canals of Purple Harbor by herself. And Before long, Bellegere informed her that she had her own visitors calling on her - young men, older men, handsome men and less handsome men.

One of them was a man who before had avoided being seen with a courtesan. But he had noticed the Winter Flower one time sitting in Black Pearl's box at the play _Azor Ahai of Lies_ about King Stannis fighting the dragon queen, and had been instantly struck by her beauty, youth and innocence. He had been resolved to court her ever since. And court her he did. He called more and more, took her out to the finest establishments, bought her the finest black and grey dresses – velvet, chiffon and muslin – as well as jewelry, perfumes and fur hats and hand warmers. Though in his forties, he was still a handsome man, and he had always been conscious of his physical fitness. And he became greatly smitten with her.

It was after two months that Bellegere told her that the man wanted to take her winter flower for his own. "Remember, Elaena, it is your innocence that lured him and he desires to take for himself," said the Black Pearl, not without sympathy. "I know it is your first time and that he is old in your eyes, but young men are too often unskilled or clumsy and it will hurt more. He will be kind and gentle to you in exchange for your maidenhood. Who knows, you might even enjoy it."

And so, innocent - awed, insecure and somewhat frightened - she acted when he took her to his finest ship, for he owned a fleet of trading ships. He wined and dined her and carried her off to the bed. He kissed her reverently, stroked her as if he dared not, undressed her himself and would watch her for a long time, sighing, without touching her, until he found the courage to undress himself and reveal to her his engorged, upright cock. She did not need to act then that the idea of his large cock made her apprehensive of hurting her. He was not unkind or rough. Nor was he unskilled. He played with her nodule hidden in her dark triangle of hair until she was wet to receive him. It tingled and felt nice when he touched her there, though it was a far cry from what Bellegere had explained to her. He pulled at his cock several times while spreading her legs and placed the tip against her moist entrance in order to make it easier on her to slide in. He slid in carefully and then stopped, panting above her.

"I will try to not to hurt you," her lover said. He pulled back slightly and then shoved it through her barrage.

She grunted, gasping for air and biting her lip as she held on to his slim arms. It was a dull pain, rather than a sharp one, as if she had bumped into the corner of a table and would grow a nasty purple bruise afterwards. She had tried to shift her hips so that she could accommodate him better. He moved inside her, in and almost out, up and down, slowly and softly first, faster and deeper over time. It felt awkward and unpleasant. She winced as he stretched her and she dared not to move. His breathing grew hoarse and ragged, until he shoved and thrust hard into her. He shuddered and his breathing halted for several seconds and then he groaned as he pulled himself out and spilled his seed on her thighs. He collapsed on top of her telling her how wonderful that was, but never asked how it was for her. It was over and done, her first time, and the blood on his cock and the sheets was proof of it.

As her first lover he was not a bad one. He did try to please her in many ways. He was patient and did not require her to bed him every time, though he took her many times. After a few times it did not hurt anymore, but she remained mostly indifferent to it, when he sucked her little breasts, rubbed her nodule or slid his fingers inside to make her wet. He seemed not much bothered by that. One night he secretly snuck her into his own home and bedchamber. She had been naked under her fur cloak, except for the jewelry he had given her. She had worn the necklace laced with poison to the bed. And when he died in his sleep a few hours later, she slipped out once more, unseen. _Quiet as a shadow._ She returned to the Black Pearl's chambers, making sure that nobody would think something amiss for a while. She eventually feigned an illness that took her to bed and let the courtiers mourn her untimely death. Elaena Amber and The Winter Rose were gone. And she would miss neither of them. But she knew she would miss Bellegere though.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that most try to age up Arya enough to our modern sensibilities, but I do try to keep this fanfic in GRRM's tone of narrative - dark and that includes very young girls ending up being targeted as a sexual object. He manages to guard Sansa from it, but Jeyne Poole for example is but fourteen when she's married and sexually exploited by Ramsay. Dany is only 13 when married to Drogo. While adulthood is recognized as 16 in Westeros and most highborn do prefer to wait for the consummation of marriage until at least that age, as it was in the middle ages, it is different for the commoners. Historically from the high middle ages on, commoner girls were often wedded and bedded from the moment they were reproductive, including fourteen year olds while men were at least in their mid twenties to sustain a household for themselves and their family. I've read plenty of historical teen books when I was a teen that involved a married girl protagonist between the age of 14-16. Though higborn, Arya is not in a highborn situation and must work and live in an environment where sexual exploitation is common amongst very young girls. On top of that her work and skill and life experiences have matured her beyond the normal. It is clear that GRRM has started to sexualize Arya in his books somewhat already in the Mercy chapter, though she's but 11-12 in that chapter. And while I jump ahead in time, I'm not jumping 5-6 years in time. What happens to Arya in here and she participates in voluntarily is ultimately tragic.


	5. The Ghost of Braavos

News from Westeros was getting from bad to worse. Targaryens ruled the kingdom once more. The dragon queen had taken the Iron Throne, even though what she had won was barely worth fighting for anymore. All of the seven kingdoms were already past the brink of starvation. _No wonder_ , Gendry thought, _the bloody Lannisters burned all the fields and last harvest of all the Riverlands at the start of winter_. _They fucking burned the bread basket of whole of Westeros! They would have burned down the lakes too if they could have._ He shuddered when he remembered the ghastly voyage through the Riverlands with Yoren. Winter had not yet fully claimed the second most fertile region, the Reach, but it had been the battle field for the war between Danaerys and the one they called the false Aegon. Her dragons had laid Highgarden to waste together with Dorne, after the Martells and the Tyrells had backed Aegon to oust the Lannisters from King's Landing. The Baratheon line was dead, save for King Robert's legitimized bastard Edric who had returned from the Free Cities after King Stannis died against the dragon queen. The Stormlands had been the first region that the Targaryen queen had claimed and Edric Storm had fallen into her hands. She legitimized him and made him Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, but he was her hostage anyway.

The lyrics of the Rains of Castamere had been altered and adapted to sing about the near extinction of the Lannisters. King Tommen and Queen Myrcella had been murdered, and so was Queen Cersei. It was said the Kingslayer had strangled her in a fit of rage and since then had disappeared. The Imp inherited it all and had been named Warden of the West by the dragon queen, because he had joined her cause in Essos already. But the Westerlands too needed rebuilding, as the Ironborn had laid it to waste after House Lannister imploded. The Ironborn were still reaving and pillaging the rest of the coast.

The harshest winter in living memory, as well as that of the Andals, had claimed half of the kingdom already. Winter storms and ice made a crossing from the North to Braavos perilous. King's Landing was not spared of it and the Neck had been frozen shut so that the Crannogmen had come out of hiding. Even in Braavos fur had become common clothing. People complained about the cold, and the fog never seemed to lift more. An almost mythically large troupe of man-eating wolves scourged everything between the Stormlands and the Wall. Before long they would claim all of Westeros as territory, including Dorne. People called them the Stark Avengers. They had earned their name, because they feasted mainly on Freys.

The Eyrie was one of the few safe areas left, but it was only reachable by ship, since the mountain tribes had laid claim of the eastern road. Sansa Stark was named Warden of the East after she bent the knee as soon as the dragon queen took the throne. She was not the heir to the North anymore. Rickon Stark had resurfaced and was in the care of the Manderlys in White Harbor, the only accessible port still left in the North. But the King in the North was a boy still and this meant that Wylis Manderly had effective control over him, after his father Wyman had sacrificed himself to allow Stannis' troops inside Winterfell dressed as Freys and Karstarks. While Karstarks, Umbers, Glovers and Manderly had helped King Stannis to destroy the Boltons, they all remained suspicious of each other, especially of Manderly, because he held the boy King in the North. With a winter such as this one, and the losses after their support of Stannis against the dragon queen at the Twins, most of these houses licked their wouds at home, and Winterfell lay unoccupied.

The news that Gendry dreaded the most though was the tale about the Wall. Even in Braavos people started to talk about sightings of the Others North of the Wall and a large army of wights. With the rest of Westeros in complete disarray there had been no new recruits for at least a year. And the numbers had dwindled drastically before that. _I should be there_ , Gendry thought. _At least they'd have one man more._ Gendry was losing hope on ever finding Arya again. After Lovely Lilly he had not seen any girl that might fit her profile for months, and since then refugees from Westeros had been flooding Braavos, desperate to find a safer world, fleeing war, destruction, banditry and starvation. Some were so desperate that they even tried to cross the Narrow Sea in river barges and plain rowboats, despite the treacherous ice and winter storms raging. Many sailors told tales of the wreckages they came across on open sea. Some people were lucky enough to be found drifting alive and get picked up.

The city was becoming overcrowded with people from Westeros who had nothing but the clothes on their back. The number of beggars and cut purses had at least doubled, perhaps tripled. And it caused a lot of fights too. Day by day, the Bravosi grew more suspicious of Westerosi. The cry for the Sealord to seal the harbor in order to keep more refugees from coming grew louder by the day. Gendry never left his chamber and the shop anymore without his newly forged hilted longsword. It was not safe anymore to explore the city as he had done the first two years, certainly not by night. On top of that it was impossible to scout inns, streets and brothels for a girl fitting the profile with the influx of Westerosi refugees.

He had been in Braavos for two years now without any result. He had come close, but had failed his mission anyhow. To try any more was futile. He was of better use at the Wall itself. In fact, he had started to inquire at the harbor for ships that dared to make the crossing to Westeros again. So far he had been out of luck. Pirates and Ironborn were masters of the Narrow Sea nowadays, while merchant ships preferred to sail along the coasts of Essos. And as long as he had no way to get to the Wall, he remained where he was and was earning himself a good deal of money. Tom Hammer had been really interested in the new type of sword he had created and had passed the word about it. He suggested to give it a name of its own – a broadsword. And it was fast becoming a favorite with foreigners and bravos alike. Their smithy was one of the busiest of Braavos nowadays.

Gendry was just finishing his latest order for it, and swung the freshly made broadsword, then stretched his arm to check the straightness of the blade.

"You should stand sideways when you hold out a blade. That way your opponent has a smaller target to harm."

He froze and had nearly dropped the newly forged sword. The hairs on his sweaty arms and neck stood upright. Slowly, he brought the blade down and turned around. There she stood, all cocky and grinning at him, with her own face.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

 _Aye, you're the ghost._ And what a ghost he was looking down at. She was all dressed in male attire - leather britches and jerkin, finished with a fur cap, and a needle hanging from her hip. Though it were male clothes, they were cut in a way that they left little to the imagination about her female curves. The britches fitted tightly around her legs and hips, while the jerkin accentuated her waist and allowed him to see cleavage. It was not a girl standing in the light coming from the entrance, but a woman. He could not help it, but all the blood rushed straight down from his head to his cock. _She can't be older than fucking fourteen,_ he reminded himself in Lem's tone of voice when Lem once clouted him at Acorn Hall. _Does a_ _fourteen year old look like that? Confident, lithe and yet curvy, with breasts like little apples._ He instantly removed his eyes away from her cleavage. _Don't look at those._ Still baffled _,_ he stared in her eyes. While she stood there smirking at him, her stormy grey eyes looked ancient to him. _Hell in comparison to her you're the child_ , said the irritating voice. He felt his head flush red and he was glad that he wore his leather apron and in the shadow to conceal his hard on as well as his flushed cheeks.

"Cat got your tongue?" She put her head to the side, and strands of dark brown hair tumbled down, framing her long face that made her damnable hot. She had grown beyond beautiful, prettier in any way he could have ever imagined four years ago.

And if he looked any longer in those big, stormy, inquisitive grey eyes of hers he would never regain speech again. He spun to face his work bench, stood with his back to her. "Time has not tempered your nosiness, Arya. Do I look like I'm fighting someone?" he said in a grumpy, defensive tone.

She giggled a very girly laugh. It was as if tiny clocks were ringing in his head. "You were practicing." He heard her step closer, into the shop. She came to stand next to him and picked up the blade. He tingled all over with her so near. _Whatever happened to my ever reliant self-control?_ "So, these are the new swords I've heard about so much lately. What do you call them again? Broadswords? I heard people talk about it, and wanted to see for myself. But I never imagined it was of your making or that you were even in Braavos."

 _She's lying._ He knew she was.

She held the sword out with one hand and swung. "These are light enough to use with one hand. I like it. Perhaps I should order one for myself. I'll pay you well, Gendry." Her saying his name sent a jolt through him. "Of course you would need to make it smaller. I'm so little." She giggled as she edged closer.

She was more than two heads smaller, barely reaching his chest. "You're just the right size," he smiled. He could not help himself.

"It's good to see you," she said almost in a whisper. "You too made it out of the hell called Westeros."

He shuffled a tiny step back, just enough to keep some distance, because his body and a part of his blood empty brain certainly did not think of her as fourteen. _I'm a creep_ , he thought and leaned on his bench to appear relaxed to her. "We looked for you. We thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry, Gendry. I was a stupid, angry girl." She laid her hand on his.

Her touch felt like wildfire lit in Blackwater Bay and all of Stannis' fleet exploding. He stared at her hand. And it was so tempting to gently rub his thumb against hers in recognition of her friendly gesture. _Stop thinking like that. Fourteen! She's a girl, a child, half your age – wrong, she isn't half your age and she looks sixteen, hell eighteen._ She seemed to understand and lifted her hand. It left him aching for her touch nonetheless. "It wasn't your fault," he mumbled. "You had a right to be angry. You had seen your family slaughtered and we had been through hell and back. And on top of that they… we were going to sell you to your remaining family." He started to grow uncomfortable by thinking of those times. "It's all in the past now." He took a big step back away from her. "Where are you staying?"

"I have nowhere to go."

It all started to become clear to him now. _She has left them! Why else would she appear on my doorstep with her own face?_ "I have a room." _Why the bloody seven hells did I say that?_ "You're welcome to stay there if you don't mind my presence and humble quarters, M'lady." At least it would be better than having her risk being marauded by men who did not remind themselves she was fourteen.

She stomped him in response. "Don't call me that."

He barely moved, and he laughed, because that response of hers made his feeling of physical attraction dissipate. And when he laughed, she was all the more determinant to stomp him again, with both hands and putting her little weight behind it. No result. Suddenly overcome by youthful emotion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up with a swing. "Seven hells, Arya, I missed you."

She pummeled her fists on his chest - "Put me down, Gendry!" - and pretended to be offended. But she grinned and her eyes gleamed with pleasure. He let her down again. "Alright, I'll move in with you for the time being, but I long to go home, finally."

He would be able to return her to her brother after all, he smiled to himself. "It won't be easy to find a ship going anymore. I've had no luck so far myself."

"Braavos is not the sole port of Essos. I could go to Pentos or Myr, even Lys or Tyrosh." She lifted herself on his workbench and sat there with her feet dangling, not much different than Lovely Lilly used to do. She picked up his hammer and weighed it in her arm. "So, you want to return to Westeros as well?" She smiled at him. "We can go together then. It would be just like in the Riverlands."

He took the hammer from her. "More dangerous even. As you may have noticed, we are not the sole refugees from Westeros. It seems as if all of Westeros wants to go to Essos. And they have good reasons for it." He frowned. _This would not be an easy trip._ If it had just been himself, he would not have minded the risk for his own life. But now that she obviously had left the Faceless Men – _or has she_ \- she was safer here than anywhere in Westeros. And yet, he had promised to take her back to the Wall. Still, he wanted her to get there alive, for the Lord of Light, Melisandre and Jon Snow, but most of all for himself. "It won't be easy at all." Sure, they would get to Pentos. But beyond that he had no clue.

"We'll find a way. We always did. We were outlaws once, remember." She winked at him. "This time we just turn to piracy."

Hearing her refer to them as _we_ felt like she was draping a soft blanket around him and it was messing with his mind. He remembered it well. She always involved him in her plans, never heeding his advice, and it got them caught every time. He had to keep his wits about him, if they wanted to reach the Wall both still alive. And the only way he knew how to do that was by creating a distance between them. "Were you in Braavos all those years? I've been here two years almost, and I never saw you," he lied.

She narrowed her eyes at him as soon as he suddenly turned skeptic. "I've been around for a while."

He laid his hammer down and faced her squarely. "Here's the deal, Arya. If _we_ are going to try this suicidal effort, then there will be no lies between us," he said sternly, and then in a lower voice. "I know precisely where you have been at least these past three years. In fact, I came to Braavos in the first place, exactly because you were an apprentice with the Faceless Men. I was sent here to find you. I assume you left them, but I need you to tell me that yourself."

Her smile was gone and she studied his face. She bit her lip. "Alright," she admitted. "I was never good at fooling you. You are correct, I trained with them. But I left the House of Black and White for good."

He listened carefully to her words and he could not detect a lie in it. He nodded approvingly. "Agreed then, we will both make this voyage. I hope that at least your training so far will be to our advantage and will keep us out of unnecessary trouble, instead of getting us into it."

Annoyance flashed across her pretty face. She had never liked it when he confronted her with the truth. "If we agree to telling each other the truth then you ought to tell me something as well I think," she bit back. "Who sent you?"

"The Night's Watch. I'm a brother of the Night's Watch." He hoped that would help enough to stop her messing with his head. She was a Stark of the North and respect for the Night's Watch and their vows would have been ingrained into her. "And that means that I will be sleeping on the floor while we share a room."

She rolled her eyes at that. But then she smiled slyly. "Now I know why the whores have a bet on you." She said more softly, "And why none of them ever won it. You have been a true brother of the Watch, all by yourself here, with no risk of anyone ever finding out."

He grunted, annoyed. That very same night he was true to his word. He waited long enough before entering his chambers for her to go to sleep without being able to distract him. And when he entered the room as quiet as possible, he found that she had prepared blankets for him on the floor, beside the bed. He slipped under the covers, naked, trying to find the most comfortable position, and listened to her soft breathing. It used to help him sleep in the days they were together with the Bannerless. This time though, it helped none. It was a reminder that she lay close to him, probably naked as well. He heard her shift in her sleep. And the thought of the blankets rubbing against her naked skin was enough for him to develop a hard on. Gendry groaned to himself in annoyance. He stumped his fist into the blanket he had rumpled together for a makeshift headrest. _Gods, the night indeed would be long and full of terrors._


	6. A Woman Called Arya Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin ;-) Poor Gendry, he's so deep in trouble

Arya woke in the morning to the soft snoring of Gendry next to her on the floor and the typical musical sound of the tinkling of the anvil outside by the apprentice smiths already starting their day early, downstairs. His room was on the second floor - small, modest and dark except for one small window. There was only the bed and a small cabinet with a little tub on top to wash yourself. Some half used candles were waxed on top the window ledge. Her chest full of clothes and money she had taken from the House of Black and White was safe here. Even roof rats were not fool enough to sneak into a room of an armored smith with only a tiny window and a door leading to stairs down into a forge full of apprentice boys and a strong man like Gendry. Arya had lived or lodged often in such rooms, above inns, kitchens, fish shops. The room lacked the overwhelming food wafts that would cling to your clothes, but there was a pungent underlying smokey smell of burned charcoal that reeked from the wooden beams of the roof even and the subtle hint of beeswax candles. It was not as moist as some of other rooms where she had stayed. No, it was one of the driest and hottest rooms she had ever slept in. She threw the blanket off her, exposing her chest to the air.

 She rolled to her side, rested her head on her elbow, and watched him from the bed. He lay with her back to her. When last she knew him with the Brotherhood without Banners, he had been a boy on the brink of manhood. She could see no boy in him anymore. Even four years ago he had been strong, but nowhere what he looked it now. He had a broad back and shoulders. In the morning light she could see the definition of his back muscles and the shadow his shoulders caused as well as the deeper shade of his spine. _And, by the Old Gods, his arms!_ She thought she would need four of her little hands, at least, to wrap them around his biceps. They were long, just like his legs were. The day before when she showed up at his forge, she had been admiring the muscle play of his back and his arms, and she had grinned at his frown of concentration as he polished the broadsword and then studied it in the glow of the fire. And later, she nearly dropped her jaw when she measured his height against hers. Others might have thought it intimidating, but it always made her feel protected. She wished she could just snuggle up next to him so that his whole form could cover her like a protective blanket. Arya sighed, laid herself down and tucked her hands under her head.

She could see a part of his face through the curtain of his thick black hair. He had it at shoulder length. In his workplace he kept it out of the way with a lace in a bun. It was all loose now, with wisps of it trailing his face. _He acquired some_ v _anity_ , she thought. _He likes to keep his hair clean and from getting bunched up in knots._ Her eyes followed the line of his jaw line. He kept a coarse black stubble. His nose was long and straight and now that he had his eyes closed she could see he had long eyelashes that threw a shadow over his face. Then her eyes rested on his lips, neither full, nor thin, but just right. _Kissable_ , she thought. _I would enjoy kissing those lips._ She shifted her focus from the finer details and soaked in his facial features in general. _He's handsome._ More, she did not believe she knew a man handsomer than he was, except when he scowled. He had the fiercest scowl, but now as his features relaxed in sleep, his face looked almost noble. There were other details that made her think so, like his hands. They were large and strong - covered with callus from the hard work - but with long and fine fingers and nails that probably would be very sensitive to finesse. And she could not help trying to imagine what it would feel like if such hands and fingers would stroke her in the places her lover had done once. Her mind tingled and she had flutters in her underbelly and the start of a deep, needful throbbing down below, but she refrained to pursue those bodily sensations, for now. It was enough to be aware of them. Bellegere had taught her that when she started to meet her now dead lover.

"When you want to seduce a man," Bellegere said, as she lay reclined on her long stuffed couch in her silk, ivory white shift and pink boudoir. Both pale, but warm colors only made Black Pearl's dark skin look amazing. Arya had alwaus thought of her sister Sansa as perfectly beautiful. But Bellegere was sensual, erotic and with her warm, friendly personality Arya thought of her as the most amazing woman she had ever known. Even she had fallen under the woman's spell. "First imprint yourself with all his features and take note of your body's response to them. Observe and observe, until you can see him with your eyes closed." Arya had tried that later, but only noted that her responses had been negligible to her first lover. She had observed that man for a long time, eating, sleeping, talking with and fucking her. In all objectivity, she did admit he was a beautiful man, but it left her neither hot nor cold, really.

The Black Pearl had also instructed her how important it was to discover her own needs. "A courtesan knows how a man could please her the most, not how she can please him best. Men who desire a woman will be most pleased if they are confident they can please her, and so a woman should know herself and should take her time for that. She needs to know what she finds attractive about him, how her body responds to seeing, thinking and feeling that man; know what she would like him to do to her." It could take days or weeks, Bellegere had told her.

"How do I know what I prefer a man to do to me?" she had asked the Black Pearl, as she sat on the floor, with her head resting on her hands on the stuffed headrest of Bellegere's couch. Arya had a hard time imagining actually desiring a man at all. She had not desired her first lover, though it had not been all that painful or unpleasant as she might have feared. But Gendry she realized now was different. She could desire him.

"When you can see all of him with your eyes closed, you will touch yourself where your body wants to be touched." And Bellegere had closed her eyes, and let her hand slide up over her own dark tanned leg, to the inside, in between, over her hips and then to her bosom as a demonstration. She had a mysterious smile on her face and seemed to enjoy it. "You can only learn about your body by exploring it. The mind will do the rest." The Black Pearl had opened her dark, almost black eyes at Arya. And her final words had been, "When a woman knows herself truly well and is able to instruct a man on the secrets of her body and mind, that man will do anything for her. He would go to the Shadowlands and back. There is nothing more pleasing to a man than the idea that he is privy to the secret ways to make her fall apart."

Arya did not need Gendry to go to the Shadowlands for her, but to have her back every step of the way from Dorne to the Wall. She needed a champion, only loyal to her, while she would be the mind behind it. And for that, she needed to seduce him according to Bellegere's advice. It would not be easy to make him surrender to her plans. He could be so bullheaded. He would probably resist and scowl at every idea of hers, just like he had often done in the Riverlands. He was a smart man and a survivor, but planning and strategy was not his talent, because he resisted change. She smiled at herself, knowingly. A part of his attraction was that he challenged her. She remembered how infuriating he used to be. She had thought of him as stupid, stubborn, only interested in polishing his helmet, and making too much noise. But at the same time she had admired his courage, his strength and that he treated her as a partner in survival, over anybody else. She had felt like he saw her as a person, like her brother Jon did, until something changed. After Acorn Hall he had grown resentful of her, was angry with her, ordered her to go away, while she had started to see him as part of her small pack. She had trusted him completely, because she thought he accepted her for who she was, while he turned on her, rejected her. It had hurt her more than any of the horrors she had lived through.

Arya could almost taste that hurt and how it had turned her heart into a black hole. Aye, she savored the resentment over it. She was still angry over that and she did not trust him, yet. It would do well, if she was aware of that too, so it would not inconvenience her. The kindly man had shaped her not to act by her emotions or revenge. A part of her was scared. That too was important to acknowledge. For the first time in years, she was without a home once more, and the man she had to rely on, was the one whose betrayal had hardened her the most.

"Who are you?" the kindly man had asked her during their last interaction, as he looked down on her from above his cowl of his black and white robe with his gentle, kind grandfatherly face and his pleasant orange breath - a grandfather she never had at Winterfell.

"No One." She looked up at him in her comfortable, buttery soft acolyte's robe, without a cowl, and the black and white on the other sides. She used to think of him as tall, but she was not as little anymore. She almost reached his shoulders these days.

"Wrong! You are Arya still." But he had not called her a liar, not outright. He started to walk and she followed on her soft slippers and lantern in her hand, into the prayer room with the dark pool of poison and the thirty images of gods worshipped all over Essos and Westeros, and the ever sleeping dead on the benches behind them. He murmured a prayer over the Westerosi who had found death at the Stranger. These days more men and women, mostly refugees she assumed, found their way into the temple and the Stranger.

It had unsettled her that he had deviated from the routine. "A woman is No One," she had insisted. They had arrived at the weirwood's face. It had no candle and no one had fallen in everlasting sleep behind the face.

"A woman is Arya," he had said in return. Again, he did not call her a liar. "Arya has been discovered. " She had blinked at this cryptic declaration, until it became clear that the kindly man was not referring to himself but to the outside world. "A man called Gendry of the Night Watch has been looking for Arya for years, here in Braavos, and knows her even with a different face." _He's talking about the blacksmith, the one the whores have a bet about_. "Arya Stark cannot stay here anymore."

"No!" she cried out. And the other acolytes and the new apprentice in his service robes looked around sharply at her. That stupid, pretty blacksmith would ruin everything for her. She would be without a home, without her pack, all because of him, _again_. And then she cocked her head. "A Woman can give him the gift," she suggested.

The kindly man smiled, but shook his head. "You cannot kill him. You know him."

Arya had been on the brink of tears. She was so close to the latter stages of her training - had sacrificed her maidenhood for it as Arya, not as No One - only to be sent away. The kindly man had been so pleased with her gift to her first lover. She did not want to know the blacksmith. She wanted him to go away. _Why the hell is he here, when he did not care about me four years ago?_ Maybe she could go to another House of Black and White, in another city? "A Woman can go somewhere else to give people the gift."

"You will surrender her acolyte robe and go home to give someone the gift with nothing but your own face. You will learn to hide in full view. You will be No One behind Arya's face, or you will be just Arya. You will succeed and become truly No One, or you will fail and become Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell, wife and mother. This is the final test. A woman is ready or not."

This she had not expected. Some of those who had been acolytes when she first came, had been acolytes for longer than she had been here. "Who?" she had asked, and he had given her a name with a soft whisper in her ear.

She had never imagined her final test as an acolyte would be anything like the kindly man had told her. She was not allowed to take any face with her from the House, nor allowed to use another face she might acquire through murder during her mission. She was only permitted to choose clothes and weapons that Arya would prefer. She would have to be Arya all the time and would have to rely on her own resources all the way, except for several bags of golden coins and precious stones. "And afterwards I can come back home, here?"

"If you succeed and becomes a true Faceless Woman, you will not return. You will receive contracts and will make your own faces." He pulled Needle from under his temple robe. "A man will give Arya this."

 _He knew about Needle all along. Did I ever fool him?_ She was almost reluctant to take Needle from him. It meant goodbye. She would be like Jaqen H'ghar and she had all the knowledge already to cut the faces from the dead and to make it her own. The final trial was a test for her alone. Whether she wanted to be truly No One or Arya would be totally left up to her. Her No One was laughing at her Arya. _Oh, how smart and devious!_ For once, the roles would be reversed.

"Who are you?" he asked one last time when she finally accepted Needle.

"Arya Stark of Winterfell", she had answered. It sounded hollow to her, as hollow as it used to sound when she answered No One before.

"Valar morghulis," he nodded in approval.

"Valar dohaeris," she said sullen, suddenly realizing this would be the last time she would ever see the kindly man again. There were no hugs, no other formalities. The kindly man walked away from her without another look or word.

Before long, she stood outside the only home she had known for the past four years, with several purses of money and stones, a coffer and Needle, the black and white door behind her closed shut to her forever. She had told the truth to Gendry, when she said she had left the House of Black and White for good. It simple did not mean she had left the guild as he thought it did. She sat in front of the temple for hours until the pale sun hiding behind the fog stood in its zenith and she waved for a barge to pole her to the Steel Canal of Ragman's Harbor. Arya Stark mulled over the events, her mission and the first needed steps towards it. While nobody had instructed her to seek out Gendry, she knew he was Arya's sole link to Westeros, and before she could meet him, she had to remember everything that Arya knew. She had to be Arya, with all her emotions, memories and thoughts, and it was not without pain. If No One had learned the past year that Arya existed still and had took control, Arya was now realizing that No One was far from dead. And she knew this much – she had not been able to fool Gendry into thinking she was a boy in the Riverlands, nor had she evidently fooled him into believing she was No One in Braavos. She could not count on duping him when it came to her being Arya if she was No One.

He stirred in his sleep and rolled around, his head resting on one hand. She could see his face in full and was reminded again how noble he looked. _The Gold Cloaks had been looking for him, not me_. _Whatever could have been the reason that Cersei or Joffrey wanted him?_ _He was only an apprentice smith in King's Landing, a bastard from Flea Bottom._ He had a secret, he knew not himself. It had to be his father, she was sure of it.

Gendry opened his eyes, and she stared into those deep blue eyes of his – they were as blue as a cloudless sky and you could distinguish a gradual deepening of the blue. And then she recognized him. She was looking in the same face of the man who sat in the council along with her father, the King's younger brother. _What had been his name?_ _Renly_. His hair had the exact same length and structure, and that face - _they could be twins_. Except Gendry was more muscular and taller than him. _Renly's his father!_ But that could not be. Renly had been too young to be his father. _The king! King Robert! He was the father_. Everybody always said how Renly looked like young King Robert Baratheon when he first conquered his throne from the Mad King. Of course, King Robert had looked nothing like his younger self when she knew him. He had been fat, red faced from too much drink and loved whoring. _That's why they wanted him. He's the king's bastard, more truly the King's son than Joffrey was. And he doesn't know it himself._

Recognition dawned into the blue eyes as Gendry jerked back and jumped up, grabbing his blankets close to his naked body. "Huh, I was dreaming." He pulled his hand through his black hair. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I know your secret," she said with a smirk.

He blushed. His cheeks and chest looked like he was on fire. One of the blankets slipped through his fingers as he gaped at her. He quickly grabbed it and held it more close and shut his wide open mouth which set his jaw muscles to work. He averted his eyes, bent through his knees and reached for his pants. He started to stammer. "P-please excuse me, Arya, but would you mind covering yourself and turn around so I can dress."

Arya realized her own blankets had left half her body exposed to him, and then it was she who started to blush. _He's sexually aroused_ , she realized, _by me_. _And he thinks I meant ' _that'_ when I said I knew his secret._ She giggled and pulled the blankets up as high as her eyes.

He turned even a deeper shade of red - red as a turnip. "T-Turn around!" he ordered in a voice trying to sound stern, but failing miserably at it.

She could not help but snigger again. Still, she dutifully did as he asked, rolled on her side with her back to him. "Oops!" Now her bottom was peeking from underneath her covers.

"Damn you, Arya! Cover yourself! What kind of lady are you?!" He left the room like a whirlwind, swearing under his breath as he slammed the door behind him.

"The bad kind!" Arya exploded into laughter as she turned right onto her back again and kicked her covers off. _He had a hard on! For me!_ She grinned viciously; satisfied that she had such an instant effect on him. _Oh, this will be so much fun. He can't help himself._

Arya tried to imagine what it looked like – him naked with an erection. And what she saw in her mind's eye instantly made her feel hot and warm and cold all at once. The glow settled deep and down below and fast became a slow throbbing with a life of its own, where she involuntarily clenched and relaxed her muscles. She chewed her lips and slid her hand down. She was wet and all ready and swollen. Her first lover never managed to ever get her this slick, not even after his efforts. _Yes, I will like this so much better than my first._ She gasped when she felt for the little throbbing button. It was hard and upright. She pressed on it carefully and moaned. She bit her lip and was tempted to rub it, but the stumbling behind the door made her think better of it.

"Are you decent already?" Gendry shouted.

She jumped out of the bed, making the plank floor creak under her feet, and dashed for the pale with water to wash herself. "No! You stay out. I'm washing."

Gendry cursed and muttered bad-tempered, "Why in the seven buggering hells did she think she ought to tell me that?"

"I'll be quick about it!" she shouted in consolation, all the while smirking smugly.

She heard a thump against the door. Whether it was his head, back or fist, she did not know. But she did as she promised – splashing water in her face and her body, and certainly between her legs, hoping it would cool her off somewhat. She grabbed her britches, pulled them on quickly, jumping on her toes to pull the last of the leather over her hips and snatched her undershirt and jerkin.

"Ready!" She opened the door and found him sitting down with his back against it, his head tilted upwards. _It must have been his head, then,_ she thought, as she smiled teasingly into his blue eyes _._

He fell back a bit after the support of the door was gone, avoided her gaze, jumped up and growled. "Get out, then! I'll meet you downstairs."

"Alright." As tall and big as he was, he stood in her way though, and she had to squirm past him to get through. It was too easy to press her body against his and make the passing last as long as possible – too easy to tease him, but also too tempting not to actually feel the hard planes and warmth of his body against hers.

He bounded into the room as if burned. "You're wicked," he said, but she could hear he was actually smiling.


	7. The Wolf Pack

"Alright," Gendry said to her over breakfast in the Green Eel. "We'll take the first ship that sets sail for Pentos, if that is what you want. We may have better luck there to find a ship for the crossing."

Concentrating on peeling the shell of her egg, Arya said, "We're not going to Pentos just yet."

He put down the bread he just wanted to take a bite off. "What?"

"First, you'll find us twenty good Northern men of lesser houses in Braavos," Arya said in that haughty, grating, bossy tone of hers. "Twenty hardened fighters, no more, no less."

By the Lord, he had once thought Willow reminded him of Arya with her ordering him around. _But she paled in comparison_ , he realized now. _There is no one more domineering than Arya._ "How in the seven hells are we going to travel unnoticed into Westeros with twenty men?" he growled back. "They'll just slow us down. Besides, the risk is too great that they will figure out who you are. They'll think you the biggest catch to make some money of, by surrendering you to one of your family's enemies."

Arya looked up from her peeled egg. "Like you did?" That remark cut deeply. But in a less resentful tone she continued, "I don't mind if we'll be noticed. I intend for us to be seen."

"Foolish, stupid plan!" he snarled.

She completely ignored him. "And I won't be pretending to be anyone else than I am either. What is not kept secret cannot be betrayed. I will be Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell while we travel."

Gendry shook his head in disgust and threw his bread down. He had lost all his appetite. "I guess I'll have to be calling you 'Your Highness' then."

Arya's hand shot out, grabbed his and squeezed it gently. "No, we are equals, you and I. I'm just Arya."

He lifted her hand in his, studying her fingers, suddenly under her spell. But she pulled her hand away and rounded her rosy red lips around the egg to bite the tip off. Her doing so knocked the breadth out of him and he shuddered as a reflex. _Damn, how she muddles my mind in an instant. She's fourteen, Gendry!_ He could not even remember how many times he tried to tell his cock that earlier in the morning when he sat against the door after waking up and ending up looking into her sleepy lidded eyes, and her small, but well defined, perky breasts with dark nipples peeping out above the rough woolen blankets. They had looked way too inviting, like sweet cherries. _Stop it! Don't think of those breasts._ He looked straight up, above her head, avoiding her cleavage. _How about the cheek of her ass then and the taper of her back?_ Firm, round, smooth. He imagined what it would feel like when his coarse worker hands would curve her silky, white skin, and… _No, don't go there with your mind or anything else. Concentrate on her face and voice._ She was talking. He could not make out the words yet; the sound of her voice was sufficient… _and sweet, clear and perky – like her breasts…_

"Are you even listening to me, Gendry?" She leaned over the table and waved her hand in front of his eyes.

He shook his head to clear his mind. "Uh, what?"

"I said, the risk is too great that a captain will surrender us to the Ironborn during the crossing if we are just by ourselves," she reasoned. "But if we are two and twenty, we're large enough a party to rent a ship and crew for our own cause to take us wherever we want to go."

 _Oh, yeah that foolhardy plan of hers. That'll do it. Be irritated, stops making you think of …_ "I think it's the dumbest plan I've ever heard of to reveal yourself as _Princess_ Arya Stark of the North," he blurted out.

"It will get me the loyalty of the Northern men and the Captain will believe I will be able to reward him myself and better than any Ironborn can."

She somehow made sense and he knew all too well he would be unable to talk her out of it. She never listened to him in the past, why would she start now. "We should look for a ship and crew from White Harbor," he suggested. "The Manderlys are the staunchest supporters of the Starks."

She threw him the sweetest smile that nearly took his breath away. "Great thinking! I hadn't thought of that yet."

As much as he felt flattered by her exclamation, he nevertheless grumbled, "So, we sail for White Harbor then and reunite you with your youngest brother Rickon,"

"No, we're sailing for Dorne."

"Dorne!? What by the Lord of Light are we going to Dorne for? It's at the other end of Westeros, and then we'll have to travel through the entire continent to get to the Wall."

She rolled her eyes and did something with her lips that meant to signal he was being dumb. "Manderly will try to keep me prisoner in White Harbor. Sure, he'll say I'm free to go wherever I want and that one day when the time is right he'll help Rickon and me get Winterfell back. But I'll have a Manderly escort wherever I go. They'll send you back to the Wall or judge you a deserter and cut off your pretty head."

He inadvertently stroked his neck. He wanted to keep his head, if he in any way could. _She thinks I'm pretty._ "And how will we convince a White Harbor crew of sailing for Dorne then?"

"That's what we have those twenty men for." And he heard her unspoken words at the end of the sentence as ' _you silly'._

"Well, why not sail for the Fingers and go to the Eyrie? The Vale is safe and your sister is Warden of the East. Surely, you can't mistrust her. It's closer to Winterfell than Dorne."

She frowned and bit her lip. But then she shook her head. "It won't work. Sansa's not like me, Gendry. You don't know her."

"I don't know any other girl even closely resembling you," he scowled.

She flashed a smile at him in and yet her eyes squinted annoyed at his use of the word _girl_. "Sansa has her own way of dealing with life and threats. She never understood me, and I'm afraid she still won't."

Gendry mumbled, "I don't even understand you most of the time."

"You understand me better than anyone else," she said softly. "Besides, Sansa's a widow and she might just want to steal you from me," she quipped.

 _Since when did I become hers?_ And yet, he knew she had the right of it. _I am hers. More fool me._ _She's fourteen and she has me wrapped around her pretty little finger, just as much as when she was ten._ He was clueless how she managed to always get on top of him. And before he could linger on that image, he reminded himself that she was annoying and made him angrier in just these past two days than he had been in years. But it was hard telling her no.

"I want to go to Dorne, because we have allies there."

"We have?"

"Aye, the Daynes."

He immediately remembered Beric's young squire, Edric Dayne. He had been named after her father who had been a lover of Edric's aunt Ashara Dayne. After Gendry had been knighted by Beric, she had spent most of her time talking to Edric who was truly of noble blood and had not given him the light of day anymore. They had been talking about their houses and noble things and all he could do was trot behind them and get angrier and angrier over not being a lord himself, or able to claim he was Jon's milk brother. And when he tried to make Edric look lesser in her eyes, they both had laughed at him. The memory of it still stung. _She wants to find this Edric and make him hers. That's why she wants to go there. She hopes to get herself a husband loyal to the Starks who will go to war for her. And I'm a blasted Brother of the Night's Watch and a bastard who can't marry anybody and who betrayed her to become a knight._ He was glaring furiously.

"The Daynes did not back Aegon like the Martells. And so the dragon queen spared them. Although they were at different sides of the war than my father during your… Robert's rebellion, they still named the heir of Starfall after my father. So, I think they might be persuaded to send troops with us."

"Troops!? We're talking troops now? You want to play at war?" Although he had to admit she was probably right about the Daynes.

"You want the Wall to have an army or not against the Others? And what better army can there be with the Sword of the Morning to fight the Long Night?"

 _With his luck in life, Edric Dayne probably was the new Sword of the Morning. He'd have to trot behind them playing at lovers just like then._ "You're going to get yourself killed with this plan of yours, and me with it," he grumbled with a grudge. But he knew she spoke reason. He would not just be bringing Arya to Jon Snow and Melisandre, but reinforcements against the Others. At least he'd be earning his stripes with the Night's Watch. _Damn that girl for being right._ "So, twenty men it is. And how will I go about finding the right ones? I'm not a Northerner; don't know the sigils or who's beholden to the Boltons, Manderlys or Karstarks."

"Look behind you." He turned his head. "See the men at the long table - the noisy ones?"

"Yeah." He noticed a large party of hardened men, with axes and swords laid out at the table. They were shouting for drinks and roaring when one of theirs pulled a table wench into his lap. The majority of them were in their late thirties and forties.

"They're men of the Northern mountain clans - Flint, Wull, Liddle, Norrey and Woods. That's eight men right there. Go and ask them 'Wolf or Merman'. "

"Now?"

"Yes," she smiled sweetly, but in that tone that told him she thought, _of course now, you stupid_.

He sighed, put his hands on the table and struggled to swing his long legs from under the table across the bench. Once he stood, he leaned on the table, towering over Arya and rumbled, "And which one would you have me address, Your Highness?"

"The one with the big belly would be best. That's Hugo Wull, chief of the biggest mountain clan."

"You're sure that one won't split my head in two as soon as I ask him your question?"

She giggled. "No."

 _You're a bloody fool, Gendry._ He straightened himself; pulled his hand through his hair, made sure his broadsword hung visibly on his hip and could be pulled from its scabbard in an instant, and took several long strides to the rowdy men. They were watching his approach warily as soon as he got up, and they all fell silent when he stopped at the man Arya had named Hugo Wull.

"What do you want, big fellow?" growled the chief, while his men were fingering the handles of their axes on the table. The chief lifted his hand in a gesture to tell them to hold off for the moment.

He made his damndest best that no nervousness sounded through his voice. "I was told you are Lord Wull, chief of the biggest mountain clans of the North. Are you that man?"

"And what's it to you, stranger?"

He lowered his deep voice. "Wolf or merman?"

The big, bearded man with a balled head at the other end of the table swore. He stood and grabbed his axe already. He was not as tall as Gendry, but he was broader and moved quickly, despite his byrnie of patched and rusted mail.

Hugo Wull squinted at Gendry and looked him up and down, then stood and met him face to face. "Wolf," he spat in his face. "Again, why you want to know?"

Gendry smiled. "I asked on behalf of M'lady." He turned and gestured his head to the table where Arya was seated. "Princess Arya Stark." And she sat there are as regal as possible, in her manly dress and that damned deeply cut leather jerkin, with a witty smile.

"We saved Ned's little girl from the Bolton Bastard and sent her to the Wall, boy," growled the man sitting next to Chief Wull. "She had half a nose left from the frostbite. That's not Arya Stark. She's taken you for a fool."

"Actually, it's the other way around. The girl you rescued was Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter who had been captured along with Sansa but sent to the Boltons as a false Arya to try and lay claim on Winterfell. The girl confessed it to me, but dared not to do the same to anyone else for fear of her life. That is the true Arya Stark and I know it because I fled King's Landing together with her right after Eddard Stark was beheaded."

Dumbfounded, Hugo Wull stared between Gendry and Arya and back.

"You know, Chief," said another. "She does have the Stark look. She could be Ned's daughter."

"Alright," said the chief, while clapping Gendry's back. "I'll sit with you two and hear her out."

After that, it was easy. When Hugo Wull heard of Arya's plan to hire a ship and try to amass troops to go to war to reclaim Winterfell herself for Rickon, he was all ears. His men were hers. Chief Wull had even a suggestion for other men that might be willing to join them. He knew several of Glover men to be in Braavos, like the sellsword Asher Forrester and the men of his father's household Royland Degore and Duncan Tuttle, and no-nosed Ned Woods and Brandon Bole. On his turn, Ned Woods informed them they were actually there to accompany Brandon and young Beren Tallhart and the legitimized Larence Hornwood. All these men had fought together at the battle of Winterfell for the late Stannis Baratheon or were freed from Deepwood Motte before it. Within days they had sixteen men sworn to Arya, and they dubbed themselves 'The Wolf Pack'. As Arya's Wolves searched for any other men loyal to the Starks, Arya instructed Gendry to make each of them a broadsword. He worked daily, from dawn to evenfall.

Gendry hammered hard on the steel that was still glowing hot from the fire he had held it into. When he worked hard, his mind was single mindedly focused on just that. It was the only way he knew how to get away from the mess Arya made of his mind. He knew he loved her for a long time already. He had said so to Jon Snow – even if it sounded totally crazy that a man of fifteen or sixteen could love a girl of ten or eleven. And back then his sexual feelings were only starting to burgeon. His appetites went no further than holding her hand or kiss her as children used to do back then. He was not blind to the bodies of the whores strutting their hips and breasts in front of his shop in Braavos, and he knew there was nothing wrong with him physically in that department. But his vow of the Night's Watch and his idealized feelings for a girl in need of his help - even if she did not know it herself - was enough for him to not be distracted by all that hair, those batting eyelashes, wet lips and breasts spilling over bodices, or lord forbid the cunts the whores sometimes presented in front of his nose.

All those years, Gendry had been rather proud of himself of his self control around women throwing themselves at him - except perhaps for one or two opportunities that amounted to nothing much and only had reinforced his self control. And he had expected it to be no different with Arya, if he just reminded himself she was only a child, a girl-woman, and he a man nearing nine and ten. But neither her body, nor her eyes, nor her behaviour fit his idea of a child, and his cock had a complete mind of its own altogether. Somehow, in those four years that he had not seen her with her own face, Arya had all grown up into a little woman who was more of an adult than he dared to call himself an adult. At night his dreams played tricks on him by allowing his fantasy to run wild – dreams in which he devoured her and made her cry out his name in wild abandon as she came. Hell, though he made sure to sleep with his britches after that first morning and had ordered her to sleep with some decent clothing as well, he woke up sticky and wet once, and _that_ had not happened to him in years. By day it was little better, when he was telling himself over and over not to think like that, reminding himself 'four and ten' over and over, but everything she did or said or showed contradicted it. No, only here, at the anvil, the fires and the bellows did he have focus enough to be relatively free of the woman that Arya had become. Here, in the smithy, every swing, every clang, every sizzle was a mental fist of self-directed anger in his own face or lunge at his own crotch, and it tired him out enough in order to maintain his willpower. Because he refused . to . indulge . himself . in . jerking . off . on . her. And with every word of that thought he banged the hammer on the broadsword.

"Is it here where I have to offer my service for the Wolves?" a woman's voice asked. He nearly let the hammer drop on his toes. Gendry whirled around and instantly recognized the Maid of Tarth. "You have grown taller," she said. They were in fact of equal height.

"You survived the Massacre of the Brotherhood," Gendry barked, skeptical of ever trusting her. She had named her sword Oathkeeper, but she seemed to fail at keeping every one of them.

"So, did you, Gendry, and still as angry with me as ever."

"Your allegiance is to the Kingslayer, or should I call him Kinslayer nowadays?" He was not going to let her anywhere near Arya. Every man or woman she ever swore fealty too died, except for Jaime Lannister.

A man who had been leaning against the outside pillar of the smithy and whose face was hidden underneath a hooded cloak stepped in sight next to Brienne. "Choose as you like," he said haughtily. "I have no family anymore to speak off and no love for the new queen." He pulled his hood off and showed his golden hand that replaced the one he lost. "I've heard you developed a sword that can be used with one hand, Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill."

Gendry spat on the floor. "Find yourself another blacksmith."

"Shall we tell him, Brienne?" Jaime quipped meanly. "Or has he figured it out already on his own, do you think?"

Brienne smiled apologetically to Gendry. It did not make her any more beautiful. "Be kind to him, Jaime."

Jaime shrugged. "We bring you and your rumored lady both a gift, well three gifts, actually. Here's yours." He swung the bag he had been holding with his good hand from his shoulder and it landed with a big clunk. "Open it. It's your father's."

Gendry eyed Jaime warily. Jaime Lannister looked but a ragged shade of his former glorious self. His eyes were hollow, tired, his skin a tinge grey. When Gendry was a boy at King's Landing he would sometimes see Jaime Lannister in the forge of Tobho Mott. He looked like a knight of the Age of Heroes then, with his white cloak and sun colored armor. And yet, even now, Gendry could see that Jaime was still a handsome man, if he would shave his shaggy beard and washed some of that grime off, just nowhere near the knight that Gendry wished one day to become when he was still a boy surviving on the streets of Flea Bottom. And he had still secretly had hoped to become a hedge knight when he was Tobho's 'prentice. He had regarded his apprenticeship as an opportunity to learn to make his own weapons and armor. He had imagined a sigil for himself, and made his own helmet, and dreamed of making his own sword and maybe even armor.

Gendry lifted the sack with ease, dropped it on his working table and peeled the cloth away. It was a giant spiked warhammer. He stared at it, quite puzzled.

"You're King Robert's bastard son," Brienne said softly.

"Robert's great love – you know your Lady's aunt for whom Robert went to war - was not even dead yet and still Rhaegar's captive when he begot you with a tavern wench. He killed the dragon queen's brother, Rhaegar, with that hammer at the Trident. And since you're a blacksmith, I thought you could wield it better than his acknowledged bastard."

Gendry scowled at Jaime for his taunting and dismissive words. "Where did you get it? And how would you know he was my father? My mother was a tavern wench. Any drunkard could have been my father."

"Well, for one, you look exactly like him when he took the throne. You could be his twin, except that you are almost twenty years younger. And I nicked the hammer right from under the dragon queen's haughty nose."

Jaime could eat horse manure for all he cared with his poisoned gifts. Gendry glowered at the hammer and Jaime and Brienne as well. He was not going to touch that damn hammer. And he did not want to be King Robert's bastard either. Still, he knew they were probably right. "You're someone important," Arya had said once in Harrenhall, the night the Goat brought in the Glover and Karstark prisoners; the night she had been peeking in on him and lowered herself from the window to convince him to help her to get rid of Ser Amory. "The gold cloaks weren't looking for me, but you." Back then, he knew she was right, just as much as he knew Jaime was right about him now, or when Brienne called him Renly at the Orphan's inn, or Arya's father – the Hand – came to inquire after his mother and father. The truth was that he just did not want to know, not then, not now. And while he had spoken the truth to Arya why he was unwilling to help her with her weasel soup, he was also afraid then of going to Winterfell. He liked it better if things stayed as they were, with Arya pretending to be an errant girl and he a simple bastard apprentice smith who had no right to call himself Waters even.

He refused to discuss it any further, certainly not with these two. "What's the other gift?"

"Na-ah-ah," Jaime waved his finger at him. "We will only show it and tell it to the Princess in person."

"I'm not letting you anywhere near her," Gendry growled.

"Well, we both are still trying to at least keep one oath, the one we made to Lady Catelyn; that we'd get her daughters back to Winterfell. I recall you knew her as the Hangwoman."

"And I recall, you already did your part by sending her to be married to Ramsay Bolton," Gendry bit back.

"Ah, yes. That was a mistake. I knew the girl was not Arya; just not that Ramsay had such cruel ways with his brides. I thought at the time I was helping that poor girl to have a better life than Baelish' whorehouse."

"So you lied to Lady Stoneheart. You told us it was Arya." He felt like taking his father's hammer and smash Jaime's head in. Things would have been different for him then. _Or would it, really?_ He would have believed her to be dead, never would have gone to the Wall and never learned she was in Braavos. Instead he would have ... No, he was not going to think of that dreadful, shameful memory.

Jaime shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly. "I had to tell her something to save my own skin." He sighed. "Now, be a good boy and tell your princess who brought her a gift and wishes to join her Wolves. We'll come round tomorrow, same time, and same place to know her answer."

He loathed doing so, because he feared that Arya might be tempted to take them up on their offer. He had no intent of telling her at all. But when he joined the Wolf Pack and Arya at Moroggo's that night, she pestered him about his scowl and ill tempered frame of mind.

"You told me we would be truthful, Gendry. I can't have my champion glowering like this," she said, as she pouted her lips, leaned low to look up at him and put her hand on his thigh. _Damn._

"Two people offered to join us," he finally hissed through his teeth.

"And that puts you in a bad mood?"

"Aye, they come with barbed gifts. I don't trust them, but knowing you, you'll probably accept them. And _that_ puts me in a very bad mood."

Arya lifted her eyebrows as if saying, "Out with it."

"Would you believe me if I told you that the Kingslayer showed up along with Brienne the Beauty? He gave me King Robert's warhammer and told me it belonged to my father with sadistic pleasure. He has a gift or two for you as well, but he refused to tell me. He wants to tell you in person." Arya bit her lip and looked away."You knew," he hissed.

"I guessed it, but I could not be sure," she said apologetic. "That was the secret I thought I had figured out and why I was looking at you like _that_ the first morning."He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, being reminded of that morning again. He had made damn sure since then to leave the room in the morning without looking and wait for her to come down, all dressed. "I understand he could have told you with more tact, but I guess that's the Kingslayer for you. His actions were right, even if his words weren't."

"So, I gather you will meet with him?" he sighed, fearing the worst. He should have just kept his mouth shut and pretend to be merrily. But he was not a good actor, nor a good liar.

"Aye." And she looked at him in that way where she dared him to object.

"Even with one hand he's dangerous," he griped. "He managed to kill his sister with one, and he _loved_ her."

"Not with you by my side." She smiled sweetly and batted her eyes at him.

He groaned in frustration. _I must be mad!_

When Arya met the pair with icy skepticism though, Gendry swelled with pride for her. "So, tell me why I should trust either of you two," she began. She stepped towards Jaime, and though she looked a little thing next to him, her charisma alone seemed to tower above him. "You, Jaime attacked my father in King's Landing, betrayed my mother after she set you free from captivity. You killed the king you swore to protect and fucked your sister despite your oath of chastity. And then you killed her."

"I never claimed I was perfect," Jaime said drily. He eyed Arya from top to toe and he lowered his eyes. All haughtiness was gone in him. "I have done some terrible things. I will not apologize for them, because I had good reasons for some and bad reasons for others, and they will not undo my actions. In the face of all the accusations you lay at my feet, I would think you a fool if you were to trust me by my word. Hell awaits me, no doubt, and no right action can redeem the wrong. But for some reason the gods have me live still, and I have chosen to do right by you and the Stark legacy."

"Until you choose to do wrong by me."

Jaime ignored the last. "You look like her, your aunt I mean." He did not say it with any spite. His eyes went from her to Gendry and back. He started to smile, but it was not the usual sneer. His eyes drifted off to some old memory and his voice sounded kind even. "I saw her once, before the start of the tourney of Harrenhall, where Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Beauty and Love instead of his own pregnant wife. She was a small, lean, boyish wild thing of the North, nothing as feminine as Cersei. And yet, I could see the appeal she had, both for Robert and Rhaegar."

"Don't speak of her," she hissed.

"As you wish, Your Highness. But what people claim and say about someone is not always the truth, or the whole truth of it. They say your father was a traitor when he was not. They say Robert loved your aunt, though he begot your strapping knight - who's glowering at me - while she was not even dead." He sighed. "I killed a mad king, who burned your grandfather and strangled your uncle and who wished to lay King's Landing to waste with wildfire, while my father sacked the city. I fought your father because he had captured my brother for something he did not do. I killed the man who maimed him. I killed my sister, because she was as mad as Aerys. Judge me how you will, Princess of the North; it will not change the past." He sounded tired.

"You said, you had gifts for Princess Arya," Gendry said coolly.

"Aye." Jaime pulled his cloak aside and pulled out a sword. Quick as lightning he pointed it at Arya's throat.

Gendry had seen it happen a moment too late. He was cursing himself, as he pulled his broadsword and aimed it at Jaime, while trying to keep an eye on Brienne, who had unsheathed two. _I knew this was a bad idea!_

"You need some training, Ser, if you wish to protect your princess any better than this." Jaime's voice was all haughtiness again. "I can kill the both of you, faster than you can strike me, even with just one hand."

If Gendry was panting and scared for Arya's life, she did not even flinch and met Jaime's gaze squarely. "You can sheath your sword again, Ser Gendry. He will not hurt me. He was only making a point about his own merit."

 _And my own stupidity,_ Gendry finished her words in thought.

Jaime smiled at her, flicked the sword so that Arya could grab it by the hilt and bowed. Arya took the sword in her own hand. The blade had red and black ripples through the steel, the colors of the Lannister sigil and a golden lion with rubies for eyes as the pommel. "You're giving me a sword of Valeryan steel?"

"This one is called Widow's Wail." Jaime shrugged. "A badly chosen name, I know. You can blame my monstrous son for that."

Arya held it outstretched to return it to Jaime. "It's a Lannister heirloom."

"No, it isn't. It was a Stark heirloom. It's half of the reforged Ice. Well perhaps a third of it." It was the first time that Arya looked stricken. "Ser Gendry, your former master, Tobho Mott, reforged the greatsword Ice into two longswords on my father's wishes."

Arya stared at it as if she was beholding a horror. "Where's the other longsword," Gendry asked, seeing that Arya was unable to speak. "You mentioned two gifts, yesterday."

"Ah, yes." Jaime beckoned Brienne and she held out one of her swords for closer inspection.

This one was longer and more elaborately decorated with rubies and lion heads. Gendry recognized it. "That's your Oathkeeper." Brienne nodded. " _She_ could have taken it away from you." Brienne's eyes flicked towards Arya, but Gendry shook his head to indicate that Arya did not know her mother had been resurrected from the dead into a ghastly thing. He thought it was better for Arya to never learn of it. Lady Stoneheart had not been her mother, not really. And she was long gone now.

"The second sword comes with one condition," Jaime said. "If you want Oathkeeper, you have to accept Brienne along with it. And I come along with Brienne."

Arya finally came out of her stupor. "This is what you meant when you said you wanted to do right by the Stark legacy?"

"I think your blacksmith cannot yet reforge Valeryan steel," Jaime said with a sneer to Gendry. "So there need to be two sword carriers. I gave it to Brienne in the first place to find you and your sister."

"This way, Ice is as whole again and you and Brienne can accomplish what my mother asked of you."

" _You_ are a smart girl," Jaime said sarcastically. "Your Highness."

"A woman," answered Arya. "Not a girl." Arya had said it in such a way that made Gendry look closer. So far, she had not given him a similar reply when he called her a girl, though she rolled with her eyes when he did so. _Woman_ could only have two meanings - she had bled or she had been bedded. _Surely, she meant the first._

"I think Widow's Wail might be something befitting your stature," Jaime grinned. "Although you might want to change the name, and have a new scabbard made for it." He loosened the belt and laid the gaudy scabbard of red and gold on Gendry's work bench.

For the first time since the beginning of the meeting, Arya smirked. "No, I like the name, in a different interpretation. But I would want a new pommel for it."

"Naturally. So, will you have one sword or two… well three?" Jaime asked.

"If you both vow to me, here and now, I will accept you as two of my Wolves."

And wide eyed, Gendry witnessed Jaime Lannister in a dirty, ragged cloak and Brienne of Tarth – both maimed for life – bow with grace, head down, swearing fealty to Arya Stark.


	8. M'Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And trouble is here

The two Lannister swords forged from her father's ancestral greatsword Ice, which had been had been in the family for four hundred years, sickened her. As soon as Jaime and Brienne had departed, Arya threw Widow's Wail away from her across his working bench. "Get it off, Gendry! Get it off!" she cried frantic.

"I will change the pommel for you," he said concerned.

"No, now! Hack that damned lion head off. Now!" She grabbed for the axe she saw hanging on the wall. "Or by the Old Gods, I will do it myself."

But Gendry gripped her arm forcibly and stopped her. His arm was of iron. He was too strong to fight. Tears of rage, frustration and a deep sadness filled her eyes. He looked strangely at her - maybe, she thought, because she had rarely ever shown tears in his presence when they were children. "It would be better to just melt it," he said gently. "It would make it a far cleaner job to replace it."

"I don't care how you do it, but do it now." She stopped fighting his iron hold and let Gendry take the axe from her. "I can't stand the sight of it. It's horrific." She slid onto her knees, leaning with her back against the bench, feeling as if the Mountain himself had taken a blow at her. She fought her tears, furiously wiping at her lingering tears with the back of her hand. Arya did not want to appear as a spoiled brat in front of Gendry. She was not a child anymore.

And yet, as Arya thought of the times she had seen her father clean Ice reverently in the Godswood at the Heart Tree, the tears kept streaming silently, while she hoped to muffle her sniffling nose. Sometimes, he allowed her to sit with him and then he would tell her of its history and of its making. She remembered Robb's pride when he measured himself against Ice and finally had grown taller than it was long. That was just before she had left with her father and sister for King's Landing. She remembered the king's executioner, Ilyn Payne, wielding it to chop her father's head off at the Great Sept of Baelor. And cold Tywin Lannister destroyed it completely and took it greedily for his own. _I should have given Jaqen his name. At least Ice would have remained whole._

She had witnessed her father's beheading. Her brother and mother had been slaughtered outside of the Twins before her very eyes. Winterfell, her home that had been built by Bran the Builder in the Age of Heroes, had been sacked and brothers Bran and Rickon murdered by Theon the Turncloak – _I never liked that arrogant twat_. She had seen innocents being put to the sword, burned, maimed and tortured – babies, girls, boys, women, men, both friends and strangers. But Tywin's callous intention to destroy the Starks completely could not have been more evidenced by the reforging of Ice. Her own father had delivered Dawn back to the Daynes at Starfall. Arya could have born the lion head for a pommel, and even that it had become a Lannister heirloom, if only Ice had remained as one. _They will pay for it. I will rid Westeros of every last one of them, eventually, when the right time comes._

 _No One will avenge nobody_ , the other revolted. The kindly man had instructed her how it was not for her to judge, nor to give the gift out of vengeance. _But that is No One. Arya will avenge it._ She realized then the underlying choice she would have to make at the end of her mission. If she would give her target the gift, she would become No One and she would avenge nobody. If she would not and chose to remain Arya, she would avenge her family and its history.

Arya became aware of her surroundings again and roughly wiped away the last of her tears. Gendry had snatched Widow's Wail out of sight as soon as she broke down and was already hard at work to heat the fires as big and as quickly as possible with the bellows. He glanced over his shoulder at her with great concern as she had a fleeting look at him, before staring rigidly in front of her again at nothing, sure now that he had seen her weep. At least, she was grateful that he had not tried to soothe or comfort her. It would just have shamed her, had he done that.

She picked herself up again, pushing herself off the stamped earthen floor. "It has to be remade, Gendry. Promise me that you'll learn how to work Valyrian steel and reforge it one day, even if I'm dead."

"I promise if you promise not to die on me." He had said it calm, serious and quite matter-of-factly.

She finally managed to smile a little. "Thank you." And then more understanding, she said, "I'm sorry, for your father's hammer."

He shrugged. "I'm over that already, Arya. I think I kind of knew it, but didn't want to know. Life's way easier thinking you're just a nobody's bastard, rather than having royal blood run through your veins. But ultimately, I find it changes little. It's just a hammer to me and my father was just a stranger who I saw ride through the city a few times, nothing more. He didn't care for me, like he cared little for the many others he had, and I not for him. I'm still a bastard with no name. It changes nothing." He grabbed Widow's Wail and held the handle in the pot above his fire.

"But many of his bastards were killed by Queen Cersei and King Joffrey. You might be the eldest one left. Someone might legitimize you and make you Lord."

He frowned for a short while, but then shrugged his shoulders. "There's Edric Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. He's a legitimized bastard. His mother was a lady – the bad kind apparently," he smirked. "And what about Bella at the Peach? Remember her? She's my half sister really, come to think of it. There'll be others too, older, younger, with no name mothers as well as ladies." She gaped at him as he made so little of it. He noticed. "What?"

"Why are you making so light of this? You're someone, Gendry. You have king's blood."

He sniggered at that, and it made her angry. "Says the _girl_ , who always cries 'I'm not a lady'," he said in a high pitched voice, trying to sound like some silly girl. Before she could stomp towards him and hit him, he said in his normal, deep tone. "I'm just Gendry, Arya, a brother of the Night's Watch and a blacksmith who can call himself Ser because one time a knight tapped his sword on my shoulders. Real life is not a pretty story. It's like Lem said, I don't get to become a knight out of stories or a lord or a hidden king."

And she could finish the thought for him - _or_ _marry the princess_. "You're somebody to me," she pouted.

His head jerked up sharply and he met her gaze with steel blue eyes, harsh as well as sad. "Am I? I doubt it." But then more softly, he said, "I don't know what Ice was to you and your family. I never had a home, a family, a name or an heirloom. They're but names, faces and things to me. But I hope one day you will help me understand, M'lady."

His words made her see him in a completely different light. _How lonely_ , she thought. And yet, she realized, it also meant being free from the pain and grief over losing a father and a mother and a brother. He was able to care for people regardless of their names. And things were just things to him. But why did he think she believed in stories? Sansa believed such things. She knew all too well how harsh life could be. A part of her felt angry and wanted to lash out, and yet she knew they had similar discussions before, and her anger had only made it worse. Something was eluding her about him that she failed to understand.

"There, it's gone." He lifted Widow's Wail and laid it in front of her to see. The lion head was gone.

She sighed relieved and smiled. _It's just a sword_ , she reminded herself. _Just a Valyrian sword_.

"What do you want instead for it?" Gendry asked. "A wolf's head?"

She bit her lip. A wolf seemed wrong too. It was not Ice. It was half - _nay a third -_ of Ice. She shook her head. "No, neither a wolf nor a lion." She looked into his puzzled blue eyes. "You decide, Gendry. Just make it beautiful. Surprise me."

He blinked, looked at the sword in his hands and then at her, and back at the sword. "Alright, M'lady."

"Stop saying that!" He smirked at her, revealing the dimples at the corner of his mouth, and she grabbed the scabbard and threw it angrily in the fire and trudged off to meet her Wolf Pack.

Making decisions for just herself and Gendry was easy, even if Gendry disagreed with most of them. But it was an entirely different story with her pack of Wolves. They were older than her, far more experienced and thought they knew better. In fact, she was the youngest of them all, except for Beren Tallhart. He was born in the same year she was. He and his brother had both hair as brown as the chestnut tree with pale blue eyes. Seated at the head of the table, Arya let her Wolves squabble for a while between themselves about Northern men they had seen and whether they could be trusted or not. She was missing two Wolves to make it twenty. They still thought she needed four. She braced herself for the moment Jaime and Brienne would arrive.

Her men were so busy discussing ships and captains they had heard of being anchored in Braavos that they had not noticed Jaime entering Moroggo's in his ragged, dirty cloak. But they did look up when the tall woman with her broken nose and ugly scarred cheek blocked the entrance light. They stared at her and shoved their elbows in each other's sides, remarking that she was the ugliest woman they had ever seen, when Jaime slipped unnoticed onto the end of the bench of their table, right next to Brandon Bole.

"Hey," Brandon protested. "Will you get, man. This is our table."

Jaime laid his golden hand on the table with a clunk and swiped his hood off, revealing his face. Arya's Wolves fell silent and glowered at him. While his eyes and his cheeks still had that haunted look she had seen in him earlier that day, he had washed and shaved. Some of his shine had returned. "What is mine is yours," he said.

"You…" Brandon began and snatched his axe, but Brienne stood already behind him and arrested his arm.

"Give me that," she said and wrestled it easily out of his hand.

The Wolf Pack sprang up all at once with weapons in hand. "Kingslayer!" No Nosed Ned cried. "You die!" Torghen Flint shouted.

"Enough of this!" shouted Arya. But her voice was too shrill and too young to carry any weight with them. _Where the bloody seven hells is Gendry when I need him._

"Sit down!" Gendry bellowed. "All of you!" He was standing right behind her. "Put your weapons away." The inn was almost empty. Many had fled as soon as the Wolves had jumped up armed to the teeth.

"But that's…"

"Now! Your Princess commanded you."

It halted the men enough to look uncertain and some of them dropped their arms. Even Arya was surprised at the deep authoritative tone he displayed, seemingly out of nowhere. She turned around to throw him a grateful smile, and then she understood. He stood with his warhammer loosely in his hand, ready to throw it to anyone's head, and the darkest glare. She thought she knew what her Wolves were seeing - _Robert Baratheon come again_. Him and his hammer had been deadly.

"Thank you," she called them to attention. "Sit, Wolves."

They looked ashamed and lowered themselves back on their seat, except for Hugo Wull. "Your Highness, that's…"

"I know, Ser Wull. He's one of ours now." She was not sure whether it was Gendry with his hammer or her interrupting him that shut him up.

"He's a Lannister," Morgan Liddle spat. "And this one in particular has already proven his word means nothing."

"He and Brienne of Tarth have sworn on Ice that they will be true to me."

"You have Ice, Your Highness?" Brandon Norrey asked with wonder.

"Yes, we have Ice," - _in a way._ "Thanks to Jaime and Brienne."

Her men threw ugly looks to the pair of them and grumbled, until Asher Forrester shouted, "Get this pair some drinks!" at the waitresses who had sought shelter behind the bar. "Let them earn our trust," Asher said to the men. "We'll judge them by their actions with us. We can always throw them overboard later."

The men roared at that and the tension had been broken. Arya remembered that Asher had been one of the first to sit down. _Perhaps_ , Arya thought, _he understands the most_. He used to be a sellsword, before he joined the party of the Hornwood and Tallhart heirs.

She was glad that Jaime had chosen to remain silent throughout the confrontation. Brienne might have drawn her two swords protectively when Arya's Wolves had sprung to attack, but Jaime had simply remained seated as if nothing of it had anything to do with him. The ale was brought to the table and poured. The men shoved to the side to make room for Gendry who sat down next to her.

Brienne lifted her cup and shouted, "To the Princess of the North. May she return home, safe and well."

"For Winterfell!" the Northern men shouted in response and raised their cups. "For Ned's little girl," and "Stark!" were other cries.

"For love," Jaime said as the last one, casually tipping his cup in her direction, while the others were downing theirs already. His green eyes met hers. She was unable to read them yet, except that she could see a flicker of respect - _and was it softness_ \- in them.

"For love," whispered Gendry faintly in agreement.

A chill ran down Arya's spine as she heard him repeat Jaime's words. Jaime shifted his gaze towards Gendry and gave him a little nod with a knowing smile. While Gendry's jaw remained stern, he lifted his cup in Jaime's way nonetheless. _Dragon fire must have frozen_ , Arya thought, _for these two to have some kind of understanding._

Customers had flowed in once more, but the inn had never been completely empty. Two men had remained seated in the corner and had watched events unfurl. Arya saw them get up and approach the table. One was small of stature and wore a green, hooded cloak. The other was a young man who looked familiar to her. He had pale, blond hair, a light blonde beard, and dark blue eyes that looked almost purple. _Ned Dayne!_

Gendry recognized him too, because Arya heard him curse when he looked up and looked straight in the young man's face, while she jumped up with a big smile. "Ned!"

"Lady Aria," Edric bowed to her.

"Princess Arya," corrected Gendry with an irritated tone.

"Ser Gendry," Edric clapped him on his broad back. "It has been a very long time since we were all together. I'm relieved to know you were able to escape _that_ mess in the Riverlands."

Gendry looked uncomfortable and slightly ashamed of himself. But Edric paid him no further mind and introduced Arya to his companion who was no higher than she. He was a shy crannogman called Rowland Fenn, sworn to House Reed who had always been loyal to the Starks, with uncanny green eyes. And it was these two who completed her pack. Better yet, they had come with a ship _Winter Heart_ from White Harbor.

All that needed to be done now was the preparation for the voyage, mainly provisions and Gendry finishing the needed amount of broadswords. Arya saw little of him as he worked hard to get it all done as soon as possible, and spent most of her time with Edric and Beren. When she did see Gendry, he was aloof and distant. He often missed the Wolf Gatherings, claiming he would have to work until late in the night, beyond evenfall, at the smithy. When she returned to his chamber, she usually found him asleep already on the floor.

Somehow the men of the mountain clans had warmed to Jaime, for he got himself into trouble with the bravos often. He was all too ready to be challenged into a duel at the moon pool, usually over insults made about Brienne. It seemed to Arya as if he had some death wish. But the mountain men loved a "fucking good fight", as they so aptly called it. Eventually word got around amongst the bravos that the one handed Westerosi was deadly and that he was in the company of plenty hardened warriors who loved nothing better than to have a poor excuse to plant an axe in someone's head and cared not for dueling rules. Arya was not sure whether Jaime and Brienne were lovers. They had each other's back, always, shared a chamber and seemed very comfortable around each other. She had watched them spar one time, and their swords flew and clanged with such fluentness as if they had been sparring with one another since childhood. It looked as graceful as Syrio's water dance, though their swords required a different movement. Despite all that, she never saw them flirt with one another, nor witnessed any physical gesture of sexual involvement. If they were lovers at all, they were very private about it.

One evening, Arya returned to Gendry's chamber and found him sprawled on the bed in a deep sleep. Widow's Wail lay beside him sheathed in a finely worked silver scabbard. Arya picked it up and looked closer at the designs drawn into it. She recognized a wolf surrounded by roses. It took her breath away, it was that beautiful. The handle and pommel were reworked into a hilt like the ones he made for his broadswords. Except this one was golden with rubies and something else was different about it. She turned it around and around and when she held it away from her, she could almost swear it had the shape of a heart. The rubies were placed so they could be seen as the center of the heart. It was far more beautiful than she could have dreamt it to be or anything else she had ever seen. _This must have taken days to make_ , she realized. She had asked him to make it beautiful and to surprise her, and he definitely had gone beyond her expectations. At the very least, it had taken the sting out of its existence.

She laid it down carefully alongside the bed. It was evident Gendry had fallen asleep from exhaustion and he was snoring softly. She considered sleeping on the floor this one time. He had earned himself a soft bed. But as he was in such a deep sleep and had rolled to his side, she thought no harm could come from crawling in while keeping to one side. It would be just like when they were children. She undid Needle and laid it down on the floor next to Widow's Wail and then undressed until she was solely in her underwear. She laid herself down, trying to keep her distance, but the bed was not that wide and she could not help but roll to the middle. Arya held her breadth afraid of waking him, but she was relieved to hear he did not. She closed her eyes and tried to find sleep herself.

The heat coming from his back, the hardness of his back muscles against the fabric of her top, his manly smell and the sound of his breathing though had a completely different effect. Her mind was prickly awake. Her skin tingled all over, especially when his bare back expanded with his breathing and rubbed against her top. When he moved his arm in his sleep, she imagined he would roll around and snuggle up to her and breathe into her neck. Or maybe kiss it. She shivered in anticipation and a deep throbbing began. Cautiously, her hand slid down her flat belly into her dark triangle and found her button. She applied pressure to it and kept from gasping by biting her lip. Slowly, but surely she started to rub the erect and throbbing button round and round. It felt good, but there was no build up without her visualizing how his strong hand rolled her over, pressed his lips on hers, his tongue meeting hers, his body weight on top of her, and his cock hard and slick and ready to enter. She rubbed harder, gripped the side of the bed, chewed her lip and clenched her buttocks with as little movement as she dared. The need in her was building, not satisfied with fantasy alone. Her hand went deeper down and with a finger she discovered how slick and swollen she was.

Arya opened her eyes. _Bloody seven hells._ She wanted him now, needed him there, inside her, thick and hard. Arya rolled around to regard his broad back in the pale diffused moonlight. Even the shape of his shoulder made her horny. She reached out and traced her fingertips softly along the ridge of his shoulder blade towards the rounding, over his shoulder and across his biceps. The sound of his breathing stopped. Arya edged closer and pressed herself slightly against him, so that her hardened nipples brushed against his skin through her top. He still had not made any sound, but she could sense with the tips of her fingers that his skin was all goose bumps. She wetted her lips and softly kissed his back. Her tongue flicked between her teeth and skated along the same ridge of his shoulder blade. She could feel a shiver ripple along his back.

"What are you doing?" finally came the tortured whisper.

Arya refrained from answering him. _Isn't it obvious?_ Her other hand glided over his neck and through the roots of his hair until she twisted a thick strand of it between her fingers. He grunted. His black hair was softer than she had expected. Her teeth grazed the shoulder ridge lightly. He gasped. Her hand on his arm wrapped around the muscle and she tried to make him roll around to face her, which was exactly what he did.

She stared at him and he returned her gaze, in absolute silence. His blue eyes showed surprise as well as a hunger she had seen before there, but he always tried to hide from her. Their mouths were close, but not touching. His fingers skimmed her waist above the top and then slid underneath to brush her naked skin, almost absent mindedly. She panted and in her need to encourage him, Arya pressed her bosom against his chest and her hips against his pelvis. She closed her eyes, unable to lose herself any longer in his blue wondering eyes, and moaned in desperation as the pressure of his hard cock behind his leather britches only made her want him to be inside of her more. She pushed her hips slowly, but surely against the bump, gasped and bit her lip. His breath was shallow, and his hand had gone round to the small of her back, squashing her against him, but he did not move to kiss her. So, she did instead.

Her lips and her nose brushed his, while his stubble grazed her chin, and still he did not make a move. They lay for a long moment breathing into one another, their lips only inches away from each other. She wetted her lips and pressed them on his. It was like soft silk and once she kissed his lips, his responded agonizingly lightly in response. She moaned with need, in her mind begging him to use his tongue, until she could not stand it anymore and slid her tongue into his velvety mouth. Their first tastes of each other were unhurried and explorative. His large, rough hand glided across the fabric of her underwear over her ass, up her back and to her cheek. She rolled her hips against his once more. Gendry groaned with a low rumble, and then kissed her with more daring. This time he rolled his tongue into hers, while she clung to him. Encouraged by him giving in to her need to be kissed, her hand moved across his chest down to his stomach. She felt his muscles contract under her touch. Down she went until the back of her hand felt the first outline of his vertical treasure trail, starting just underneath his navel.

Gendry stopped his kiss and for a long torturous moment they breathed each other's air again, staring at one another. "We should stop this," he whispered, but the longing in his hoarse voice was the sole thing Arya wanted to hear.

She whimpered with disappointment, pressed her lips on his again and ducked her hand into his crotch, so that her palm pressed against the head of his engorged cock and her fingers glided against his shaft. He moaned and rolled his tongue in her mouth as a response. Arya twisted her hand so that her palm rubbed the velvety head and her fingers wrapped the shaft. Gendry whispered her name and his lips and tongue wetted hers more fiercely, passionately. Her thumb rubbed the tip, around the ridge of the little hole, and discovered a drop of pre-cum like a drop of dew on a petal. She smeared it across his tip, and then started to rub his shaft up and down.

"This is wrong," Gendry murmured in between their kisses.

 _Yes, so deliciously wrong_ , Arya thought. Her other hand flew down as well and started to tuck and pull at the laces of his pants, while she used the other to stroke his cock up and down, digging deeper to have her first feel of the velvet skin of his balls. Gendry buried his face into her hair, and they lay cheek to cheek, her soft hairless skin against his stubble. She caressed his cheek against his, while she plucked the last of his laces out and yanked the leather down. His freed cock jumped away from his stomach into position.

"Please stop, Arya," he breathed into her ear.

But she did not want to listen. She wriggled his britches down with one hand, yanked down her cotton under leggings, and writhed her hips higher so that the tip of his flexing cock touched the inside of her legs. That alone gave her a new jolt of excitement – _almost_. Arya squirmed until his throbbing head was pressed against her wet opening. She waited, and her mind screamed silently "Take me, Gendry!" while his ragged breadth coursed through her ear. He did not move, but his hand had moved to her neck and against her collar bone. He was pushing his palm against her shoulder.

 _Well, if he isn't going to push himself in, I will._ She rolled her hips, and let her wet opening sink onto his tip, and felt the first real contact and the bulbous head of his cock separating her lips.

"Please, M'lady," he whispered almost inaudibly as he rolled her shoulder away from him. His voice contained deep anguish. "M'lady." It was like a soft caress.

And Arya finally understood. _He loves me_. _When he says M'lady, he's saying that he loves me._ His love hit her like a brick in the face, because she knew that while she lusted for him, she did not love him in return as he loved her. _Worse, he knows I don't love him like loves me._ _That's why he's so tormented._ She slid away from him in shame as if he was a flame that would burn her. _What have I done to him?_ "I'm sorry, Gendry. I won't do that again."

"Yes," he said with what sounded like regret.

The moment she rolled away, he jumped out of the bed and stumbled towards the little window of his chamber. He leaned his hands on the window sill and bowed his head, breathing roughly. In the moonlight Arya could see his hand go to his cock, while he supported himself with his other hand against the wall beside the window. She heard a slapping sound of skin to skin and realized he was masturbating. He had maintained self control for so long, she knew, and now she had brought him to the brink. Arya curled into a ball on her side and wept from the mortification she felt for her own thoughtless actions. Her weeping became sobs when she heard his groan of release. She wanted to be buried with her disgrace caused by her selfish actions towards him; for she thought it impossible she could ever love him back. Where she ought to have a heart, there only was a black hole.

She had become so lost in her self-inflicted humiliation that she did not hear him return or seat himself next to the bed, on the floor, by her side, with his pants laced up. She only became aware of it when his hand gently caressed her cheek and dried her tears. Arya stopped sniveling and opened her eyes. His own gaze was full of love. It made her burry her face in the bed once more. It hurt her to see him love her so. Gendry shushed her, turned her head and kissed her tears. She eyed him through her wet eyelashes with wonder as he took her hand and studied it.

Gendry leaned with his back against the bed, his head close to hers, looking away from her. He pressed her hand between his own and started to speak. "I remember the first time I ever saw you in a dress. It was funny." He smiled at himself, and he stroked her hand gently, as if she was a kitten. "Not because it didn't become you, but you looked so upset about it when you entered Acorn Hall in your acorn dress. You looked clean and pretty, a real little lady, but such a scowl. It was the funniest thing I had seen since a long while." Arya's tears had stopped and she held her breath for fear he would stop talking. "When we visited the smithy, you told me I could make swords for your brother in Riverrun. A part of me thought why not? You looked pretty in that dress and smelled like flowers. And I wanted to hold you, and give you a peck and have you as my girl – you know, holding hands, playing together. We'd grow up and then one day be wed, like that song Tom was singing in the hall. For that I might have been willing to give up my own childish dream of ever becoming a knight. Or perhaps your brother could make me one of his warriors, when he saw how good we would be together."

She lifted her head and eyed him in amazement. It was as if he was binding his own magic spell right there and then by bearing his soul to her. He turned his head and met her inquisitive stare. He smiled that cute, dimply grin of his.

"Move over," he told her. She shifted to the side and he crawled under the blankets. It was safe now, after he had spilled his seed already. He laid his arm around her shoulder and she rested her head on his chest, hearing his voice rumble around beneath her as he continued his story.

"I was not really a boy anymore, and not yet a man either. I was something in between. Both Tom and Lem saw the fantasy in my mind. Tom obviously thought it was cute and sang his love song. But Lem knew that I would become a man soon and reminded me of my station."

Arya let his words sink in. She tried to remember. All she knew at the time was that he was her friend. She had no idea he wanted her to be his girl. She thought all those songs about lasses and knights, and swords and crowns were stupid. She still thought so. But she could not help but smile at herself at the thought of Gendry as she knew him then wanting her for his girl to hold hands. Had he asked, it would have shocked her, but she might have said yes, then. _I would have called him a stupid boy more like_ , she thought. But only because she would have felt embarrased. She knew she would have liked knowing it then nevertheless.

Gendry caressed her hair. It was almost like Jon used to do, but different. "And then we arrived at the Peach," Gendry finally continued. "I was green behind my ears, but when Tansy pinched me my body responded involuntarily. I hardly knew what was happening to me, but I found all the girls sitting in laps, kissing and being groped fascinating. I didn't want you to know that though, and you looked pretty again, with all that linen and lace, and it wasn't proper. When Bella proposed to me, I wanted to die of shame. She did that right in front of you, the girl of my dreams. I wanted to wait and be faithful to my girl, but my body was betraying me. I had my first real hard on. So, I ran out and tried to walk to cool off. Being angry helped, at myself for my cock suddenly having a life of its own, at you for being too young and highborn, at Bella for... for... But then I realized I had left you alone there. So, I returned and arrived right on time to save you from that dirty man who didn't care you were but a child. And all I got for it in return was why I had said you were my sister. Of course, you weren't. But thinking it…well... euhm… it helped."

He fell silent. Arya waited for him to tell more, but he didn't. "Why did you join the Brotherhood then, if you wanted me for your girl?"

"I realized it was a fantasy, something out of a song. Your brother would never let me marry you. Blacksmiths don't get to marry a princess, nor made a knight. And it hurt to be around you, knowing that. But Ser Beric could dub me a knight, a true knight. Not some knight that raped women and burned fields, but one that protected and helped the innocent, as it ought to be. And then maybe when the war was over and you were older I could go north and ask your brother for your hand."

He lifted his other hand and wiped at his face. _Is he crying?_

"I was a stupid young boy, Arya. I didn't know any better. I simply wanted to be something better."

"Thank you, Gendry, for telling me." She lifted her head and gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek, kissing a tear away.

"Hmm," he grumbled. "Go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

He fell asleep not long after, a peaceful sleep. She lay awake for a while still, listening to his breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her. There came no throbbing this time, but she felt warm and fuzzy by his confession in a different sort of way. She had wanted him to be intimate with her at first. And he had not given her what she had desired. He had instead given her a different sort of intimacy, and she couldn't deny she had liked it.


	9. The Bloody Bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the wrong expectations can lead to painful mistakes

The hilt of the sword smacked him so hard in the chest, that Gendry staggered back and his breath was stuck in his throat.

"Fucking use that sword of yours to fend off my blow!" Jaime spat. "I know you can wield a hammer, but if you want to be a real knight, bastard, you must learn to be faster with that blade. Again!"

Gendry gritted his teeth and took the starting position as Jaime had taught him. _Legs wide. Knees bent._ There was nothing more immobile than locking your knees or keeping your feet together. _Feet in the ground, torso up, breathe and sword up, but arms relaxed._ And then the shuffling dance began, anew.

"C'mon, Gendry!" Hugo Wull shouted. "Give that Kingslayer his well deserved thrashing." The men were watching and cheering the training on deck from the railings. Somebody was always training on deck, and the others would be betting on the fight. Aside from gaming, there was little else to do. And Jaime had said a ship was the best way to get a sure footing and work on balance.

"Strike me!" Jaime ordered.

But Gendry was not falling for that trap immediately anymore. The first strike was often the one that killed, but if you failed, the likelihood of the other killing you was even greater by parrying and striking while you were out of balance and left yourself exposed. He would strike at Jaime when he felt ready. He was taller and more powerful than Jaime, so he had the advantage to topple Jaime. He had longer legs to cover distance. He had two hands, and could switch hands if necessary. He lunged. Parry - parry. He ducked under Jaime's blade swing and brought his own sword up and the hilt struck Jaime's jaw, which sent him reeling backwards. Gendry grinned satisfied.

As the men cheered, he noticed Arya sauntering across the deck in the corner of his eye. His jaw locked tight. She was talking and laughing with Edric, and neither of them paid him any notice. They stopped to lean on the railings, watching the shores of Essos, with their backs on him. Meanwhile her well rounded ass curved tight in her fitting leather pants was all he had eyes for.

Jaime had noticed what had drawn his attention as he got up. He wiped the blood and snot from his face and his sneer became an evil smirk. The next round had taken several blows, but Jaime had managed to force Gendry to become wobbly on his feet. Next, Jaime delivered him a blow in his crotch with his hilt and Jaime's golden hand impacted his jaw. It sent him sprawling on the floor. Now he was the one coughing up blood and snot, wondering whether Jaime had knocked a tooth out. Gendry blinked at the sun shining brightly above him in the sky, until Jaime blocked his view and held out his one hand to help him up. As he picked himself up, Edric and Arya were looking at him and laughing about some joke Edric made to her. _Of course, she would pay only attention to him when he was being humiliated._

"Better than yesterday," Jaime told him. "I might make a reasonable swordsman out of you yet by the time we reach Dorne." The fight was over. He slapped Gendry on the back and steered him away from Arya and Edric. "Let's go down below and nourish our wounded pride with some summerwine."

Gendry grunted in assent, while spitting out blood. Down below, they settled on their usual spot, leaning with their back against crates. Gendry sat down carefully, feeling somewhat sore for the blow at his most vulnerable place. It was a good thing, that he had quickly learned to add a layer of padded protection in his pants, once he had started to train with Jaime. He removed it now - a bent piece of metal with stuffing glued on the inside. Jaime took the first swallow of the wineskin, before passing it to him. Gendry would never have believed it if someone had predicted that one day the Kingslayer would be his mentor, both in swordfight as in drinking. But if he had to train how to become better in handling a sword than the basics he learned at Castle Black, there was no better knight to learn from than Jaime. In the end, getting his ass wiped by Jaime, while he was the Wolf Pack's captain, was not as bad as getting a beating by Asher, Black Donnel Flint, Brandon Tallhart, or Lord forbid Edric fucking Dayne.

They usually shared the wineskin in silence. Rarely did they talk, certainly not about the past, because every possible subject seemed to be a danger to their friendship of convenience. For some inexplicable reason, Jaime had grown on him since the day they had set out from Braavos. They both harbored their secrets close, and not having to talk about it nor pretend at social niceties seemed expedient to them both.

For once though, Jaime was rather talkative. "Tell me about your first kill," he said as he passed the skin of sweet summerwine over to him again. "Who and how?"

Gendry took a large swallow and savored it in his mouth with his tongue, before downing it. "It was Biter, one of the Bloody Mummers of Harrenhall."

"I know that one - ugly beast and good riddance."

Gendry passed the skin back to Jaime who took his fill. He eyed Jaime with surprise. _He doesn't know._ "Aye, killed him by driving a spear through his neck while he was chewing on Brienne's cheek."

Jaime narrowed his eyes and seemed to look in the distance. Nothing was said for a long while again. "Good riddance to every one of them." He brought the wineskin to his lips.

"I'll drink to that," said Gendry and grabbed the wineskin with both hands as Jaime threw it back at him. Gendry pressed his lips together. "Arya saved him once." He snorted. "One of Arya's greater ideas. She killed plenty people long before me, but she saved that one for me to kill afterwards; him and Rorge and the Lothari soldier."

"Never met the Lothari," Jaime said. "No matter, really - war always makes the scum of the earth flourish. If it hadn't been Biter or Rorge, plenty more of men like them would have taken their place instead. Your Brotherhood wasn't any better."

Gendry pondered Jaime's sneer and took another swallow. "In the end, yes." Jaime chuckled at that. He remembered Lem Lemoncloak with his Hound helmet and what a beast he grew into after Beric was gone. Was it the war that turned Lem or was it Beric's leadership who kept him at bay? Gendry was not sure of either possibility. _Will I ever turn into someone that somebody later on would be glad to see dead?_

"War and love both change a man for the worst… or the best," Jaime said. He plucked the skin out of Gendry's hands. "It all depends on who you love."

They were fast getting to dangerous ground. Gendry swallowed. He knew what Jaime implied. Many times he had cursed his choice on the one chance he had with Arya, although at the time he believed he was doing the right thing, keeping his vows and not taking advantage of a girl's desires. It was impossible for him to consider her as a girl after that night. She was all woman to his mind. Arya had woken him up, had come to him, had kissed him. He had done nothing whatsoever to invite her. He only gave in to kiss her and hold her close. And then it all happened rather fast, confusing him - she had yanked his laces loose, pulled her smallclothes off and nearly straddled him. The sole true reason that had made him push her away was the feeling in his gut that their first time should not be some happenstance fuck in his little, dark room above the forge. Even though her body that night screamed at him, "I want you! Take me!", and his own guilty lust had been urging, "Do it! Fuck her senseless! You know you bloody well want to! Take her maidenhood, right here, right now! This is your chance!", some instinct had told him to hold back. He did not just want to fuck her. He wanted to love her. And as he told her the story of Acorn Hall afterwards, when she was crying, he had come to realize that she was at that age he himself was at Acorn Hall, her own sexuality starting to bloom only recently. She could not possibly love him yet, not the way he loved her. And maybe she never would. That insight had bruised him more than anything else.

While Arya slept with Brienne in what used to be the Captain's cabin and he was down here below with the rest of the Wolf Pack, he fell asleep every night with the memory of her being ready, wet and all, of her slick, velvety cleft sliding over the tip of his cock. In his dreams he pushed his hips deliberately to sink into her tawny, lithe body against his, and ruin her for any other man forever, spilling his love into her and make her love him back. Those dreams - or were they nightmares - beat his head in over his rejection of her, startling him awake every time when he came to the part where he fucked her, telling her he loved her, and she sobbed tears. He remembered how she had wept in the bed, as soon as he got up, and sobbed worse even when he shamelessly jerked off right in front of her, while she could hear and see. Her only experience could have been what she had seen the young whores do in Braavos, he was sure. Hell, he remembered how unperturbed she had been at the Peach at ten. He had blushed more than she had. Maybe that was what she had grown up to believe she needed to do to express her love for a man? And what had he done? He had rejected her, mortified her, hurt her, just as when he had chosen to join the Brotherhood.

As convinced he had been that night that he had made the right choice for them both, when they had shared that intimate moment in his bed as he confessed to her what had happened to him at Acorn Hall and the Peach, he felt the opposite as soon as they boarded _Winter Heart_ the next day. From that moment on, she had avoided him, though it seemed impossible to accomplish on such a small space as a sailing ship. Day in and day out, she spent most of her time talking and laughing with Edric Dayne about things he would never understand, things she could never share with him. _I'm as stupid as Arya often likes to remind me off for as long as I can remember_. And now all chance for him to win her was lost. He had done it for the greater good, to give her a chance to grow up and discover love on her own pace, and it looked like Lord Ned would walk away with her heart, because he just had to be too chivalrous for his own bloody good. Edric fucking Dayne was a Lord, closer to her own age, as handsome as a Targaryen, and could actually marry her in a heartbeat.

Gendry snatched the wineskin away from Jaime and took two big swallows. Wine helped against his cock's memory. He swished the content to measure how much wine was still left, and decided to down all of it. He would be drunk later on, he knew. He was getting drunk often nowadays. But he did not care. It helped him sleep without dreams. Wine and getting bruised up by Jaime was what kept him from feeling his bruised heart. "So, which one do you love now - the kind that makes a better or worse man?" He had never been so bold about it to the Kingslayer.

Jaime smiled. "Definitely, the better one."

"And still you sleep with us down here below," Gendry scorned.

Jaime cursed. "Aye, just like you, bastard." He seized the wineskin and swore some more when he found it empty. He opened another one. They drank in silence for a long while.

"What happened really to Lady Stoneheart?" Gendry asked.

Jaime grunted. "If you don't know, why the hell should I?"

"I watched the orphans, remember," Gendry mumbled.

"And alerted your gang of _brothers_ on any visitor to be taken and hanged by them," Jaime sneered.

"Well, that too."

Jaime put the second wineskin to his lips and took another swill. "Those orphans did not fare well either, by the looks of it, when I was rescued by my army and the Freys."

Gendry sighed, and he hung his head down between his knees. "No, I left for High Heart, looking for the old woman, just prior to the attack."

Jaime passed the wine back to him. "As if that did you some bloody good," he snorted. "That old crone!" Then he prodded him against the elbow. "Well, did she say something? Did you give her a kiss?"

It was all hazy. He had fled in the morning from the inn, in shame, to avoid... Gendry shook his head. For some wild reason he had gone in search for the witch all by himself, confused about all his choices in the past and the night before. He had reached the place by nightfall, and had made the round around the one and thirty weirwood stumps, fondly remembering how one time he had made that same round together with Arya. He had made a fire, and then she had appeared, with red eyes glowing in her wrinkled face. She was no higher than three feet, leaning on her gnarled cane. Her brittle, white hair looked like a veil as it almost touched the ground.

She sat beside him at the fire, uninvited. "The Black Wolf honors me, and all by his lonesome self," she had said. "You prefer me over that young, tall, brown haired thing then?"

He had looked at her aghast, wondering how she knew. And yet, was that not why he had sought her? Because she knew stuff? "I'm no Wolf."

"But no Bull anymore either. The Bull's lost," she crowed. "You're no King's Man, no lion and none of that scum of Twins either, but sworn to the Lady of Hanged Corpses. That makes you a wolf alright."

He had sighed. Yes, that helmet he once had been so proud of was long gone, stolen by Dunsen when he was captured at the village, before he was taken to Harrenhall. For a while he had still used _The Bull_ as his nickname after that, but somehow it had been forgotten. "Fine, a wolf then."

"Give me wine or I will go, for my old, weary bones ache with the winds of winter coming."

He had picked up the wineskin he had taken with him from the Orphan's inn for this purpose from between his boots, and held it out for her. "Here you are, milady," he had said politely. "For your dreams and news."

"I'll take the skin of wine for my dreams, but you'll need to give me a kiss for the news." She cackled and grinned, "A wet, slobbery one. I've always wanted to kiss a virgin."

Gendry had shivered at the thought. "What about a song?"

"If you know the one and can hold a tune."

"I can try."

She opened the wineskin and took a big swallow of it. A stream of it ran down her chin, which she wiped off with the back of her hand. "Bitter wine, for bitter news. The brothers are no more," she had said. "Scattered, dead. There will be no more scum hung from the trees anymore by the Corpse Lady."

He had blinked at her several times and then looked around into the dark. "What are you going on about? Everything was just fine this morning. I even came across Anguy whistling alongside Harwin."

"I dreamt them dead and scattered. And today the lions and the Twins came down on them to look for the maimed lion you took. It's a good thing you came to sleep here tonight, where no harm can come to you, black wolf. You'd have been kissing worms otherwise." He wanted to rise, get on his horse and race back to the orphans, even in the dead of the night, but her wrinkled hand had wrenched itself around his wrist and held him. For a hand that old, it had a surprisingly strong grip. She drank deeply from the wineskin. "I dreamt a white wolf turning into ice as his brothers cut him with knifes that hollered for the watch. I dreamt a starving king faking his icy drowning to enter the castle of winter and butcher flayed men. I dreamt a savage pup sailing with onions for a harbor with rat cooks. I dreamt a naked queen walking in the streets. I dreamt another wolf child serving the dead, in a house of black and white."

Gendry was unable to make any sense of it then. Only later he remembered her words when he learned about Jon Snow's fate at the Wall, and when Melisandre ordered him to go on his mission to seek Arya in Braavos. "What must I do?" he had asked.

"I see you, black wolf," she cackled. "Seek your lady wolf. Flee these grieving woods of corpses. The tall, brown one is no more, and your lady wolf not here. Perhaps you can fill her hole with life." She shook her head sadly. "The red priest gave you advice, and so will the red priestess." She emptied the wineskin then and said, "I'll have my payment now, as you promised - a song."

And he did try to sing the song she always wanted from Tom. She cocked her eyebrow at him when he searched for the next lyrics and sang a false note once, but she had been pleased nonetheless. He fell asleep at the dying fire, and by the morning the old crone was gone. He had raced through the mists back to the inn and found it burned, and knew she had spoken the truth.

Gendry looked at Jaime and smirked. "She asked for one, but I sang her a song." Then he tilted his head back and looked at the dark beams and the many ropes of the hull's ceiling above him. "Had I not gone, I would have died with the orphans, and Willow and Jeyne Heddle. I guess it's true wjat they say - no harm can come to you at High Heart. She told me about Jon Snow's attempt on his life, about Cersei's walk of shame, Stannis' trickery to beat the Boltons, Rickon's return and where I could find Arya, although of course at the time I understood none of it. But basically the old hag sent me to the Wall."

"Well, your love is of the deadly kind. Her eyes have the coldness of a professional killer, not just winter. I think it's quite possible she might have killed more people than you and me together in her young life, and I have killed lots of men and women – good and bad. Damn she gives even me the chills." Jaime laid his hand on his shoulder. "Try to not get yourself killed in the process, and if you _must_ sacrifice yourself for her make sure it is for all the right reasons." Jaime crawled up and wandered off, leaving the rest of the second skin for him to finish.

Jaime and Gendry were not the sole ones who sparred with one another on the deck. When Gendry finally managed to reach the top of the stairs on his drunken legs, holding himself by the ropes, to keep from falling and smack his face against the damnable shaky stairs, he could hear the clanging of swords. He squinted against the bright sun, realizing he would have a headache later on. Brienne and Arya faced each other, both of them holding two swords. Arya fought with Needle and Widow's Wail, while Brienne warded off her blows with Oathbreaker and the broadsword Gendry had made for her. "Make it beautiful", Arya had said, and he had poured his heart into the hilt of Widow's Wail.

Of the two, only Brienne was sweating. He would have thought that Brienne would have all the advantages. She was as tall as he was, experienced and one of the best fighters in all of Westeros for years already. It was said she even bested the Knight of the Flowers at a tournament held for king Renly. Arya was too small and not at all broadly muscled and more used to the Water Dancing as she called it. But she was quick as a snake. Brienne seemed sluggish in comparison to Arya's footwork, even though she was faster than Jaime Lannister. Everybody was hooting encouragements. The excitement coursing through the onlookers – Wolves and crew alike - was catching and Gendry found himself smiling. But he winced when Brienne finally managed to smack her elbow against Arya's head and pinned her onto the deck, holding Oathbreaker to her neck.

"Yield," Arya gave in.

Brienne helped Arya up and when there was applause for the grand show they had performed, they bowed smiling like mummers at the end of a play. Edric Dayne and Larence Hornwood were next. But Gendry had no eyes for it, when Arya walked with a light, veering step towards him, her eyes alight with energy. She was grinning from one ear to the other. And the sea wind sent her hair whipping. She was the most exciting woman he had ever seen.

"How's that chin of yours," she asked gaily as she came to stand next to him. She sounded nothing but relaxed.

He rubbed it. "Bruised."

"Jaime's too, no doubt. That was a mighty blow you managed to sneak in there." She had witnessed it after all. "You've grown better."

"I have a tough master teaching me."

She laughed. "Aye, I've noticed. Well, you're learning from one of the best and not just sword fighting." She turned to face him and sniffed his breadth. "You're drunk." He managed a sheepish grin, while he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. She giggled. "Perhaps I should join you both next time down below and get me some of that summerwine as well and find out what you two talk about so secretly. Brienne isn't much of a drinker."

Gendry smiled. "You're not missing much. We mostly just drink."

"Aye, and that has me worried." Her expression and tone had switched from gay into concerned. He could swear he even detected caring in her voice. She suddenly dropped her gaze, as if she was confused about something, and managed a forced smile. "I still have to thank you for Widow's Wail. It's more beautiful than I could have hoped." She looked up and stared into his eyes. Her otherwise cold grey eyes carried a kind softness in them he had not seen before. "I love it," she whispered.

His heart thumped in his throat. He blinked, but he could not break their gaze. _Is she saying, what I think she's saying?_

The Wolves were applauding, and finally both Arya and Gendry looked to see who had won. Of course it was Edric fucking Dayne and Gendry saw how Edric searched for Arya in the crowd. She shouted, "Well done!" even though she had not seen how he had won. Edric smiled but shifted his eyes uncertainly towards Gendry.

For once, Gendry smiled at himself smugly. "Well, if you want to taste some summerwine, M'lady, how about meeting me later here on the deck. I'll bring you a wineskin and we can count the stars." He had no idea where he had found the guts to propose it to her. The image had just sprung to his mind. It was probably because he was drunk already. He would need to sober up by evenfall though. "The men are too rowdy down below. It's no proper talk for a lady." Even though he knew she could sign the fig or swear as ugly as the mountain men, calling them camel's cunts.

Arya flashed a smile at him. "Alright." And then she strolled off.

One moment he had been drowning in wine from self-pity and the next he felt he must be the luckiest man alive. He did sober up. The cook's gruel had helped. And so was the growing nervousness turning him into a knot. He made off with a wineskin and an excuse to the deck, thinking she probably would not show. But Arya did show, in a dress no less. He had not even realized she had one, let alone took one along for the voyage. She came to sit next to him. And he had trouble finding words. It was not a dress of lace and silk or bows or pearls. But a simple, grey one that highborn ladies in Braavos wore.

He could not help but feel for the fabric of her skirt – velvet. "Pretty," he managed to say finally, as his eyes were drawn to her bosom tightly packed in her bodice. He leaned in to sniff her perfume. "You smell of roses too." Had she done all that for him, or did she wear this every night? He was not sure; because it was the first evening he went on deck instead of remaining in the hull.

"Well, at least I don't look like an oak tree," she quipped. "Come, give me that wineskin. I hope you brought it with you. You promised to drink with me."

"Aye." He lifted it and opened it for her. She took it greedily and brought it to her lips. "Not too much all at once," he warned her when he saw her pour a good swallow into her opened mouth.

The wine flowed from the skin's opening onto her tongue. Some of it spilled over her lip and trickled down over her chin, down her lithe neck. All the blood rushed from his brain to his cock and he felt the swelling. Surprisingly, it did not feel uncomfortable. He could have just watched her breasts rise and fall in that bodice, her lips glistening from the wine and let the breeze send wafts of roses mixed with her personal female perfume into his nostrils, and would just be content, hard cock or no.

"Give me that," he rumbled when he saw her taking another swallow. "You'll be drunk in no time, otherwise."

But she jumped out of his reach and giggled like a true girl as she poured the wine in her open mouth. When she was done, she stepped up to him, her eyes smiling. "It's very sweet." She stretched her arm for him to take the skin. When he reached for it though, she hopped back, so he fell forward. Just in time, he regained his balance with his footing.

He jumped up and lunged for her, and she shrieked while she ran away from his grasp. He waited, feet apart, knees bent, for her to come close and taunt him again. And taunting him, she did. She stood there swaying her skirt and waving the wineskin at him, before she brought it to her lips. Gendry sprang and she tried to race away, while holding the wine to her lips and spilling some on the deck, but this time she was too late. His hand managed to lock tight right above her ankle.

She fell. "Oops," Arya giggled. And her fall dragged him with her. She laughed and she tried to wriggle from underneath him.

"Oh, no you don't." He used his weight and his hands to keep her where she was, but wary of the whereabouts of her knee. If she were to hit him in the groin this time, it would hurt badly. To his surprise she did not fight him much. For a moment they lay still and looked into each other's eyes, smiling. Hers were as soft as earlier that afternoon and drunken. _It could not be possible the wine yet_ , he thought.

"Hmmm," she sighed, her smile lingering.

 _She looks happy._ And it affected him, as well as her bosom heaving up and down against his chest. He blinked and transfixed by her he stared at her curled lips. She broke the spell though when her hands reached for his sides and she tried to tickle him. She giggled and chuckled and laughed as he tried to wriggle away from her hands. He managed to grab one hand and pin it on the deck above her head and finally the other while his knee locked her hips. Her eyes were wide and dark and she looked all contented sweetness. Still holding her two teasing small hands in an iron grip, he lowered himself and kissed her, a slow, lingering kiss. She opened her sweet tasting lips for him. He wanted to savor that summerwine kiss. Gently he entered her mouth, and the tip of their tongues touched. He pressed his lips onto hers, and kissed her with more daring and resolve. It seemed to last forever, and he wanted the kiss to last forever, as sweet, as soft, as bold and as loving as it felt. But he became aware of rough male voices and laughter. He broke away from the kiss, while she lifted her head to follow his lips. He smiled and kissed her lips - once, twice, thrice more - while he helped her up again. The sailor crew was watching them.

"The show is over," he said to them, as he held her close and steady with one arm around her shoulder.

She rested her head against his chest. The sailors laughed, nodded, but turned away to return to work. He bent down to pick up the wineskin from the deck, while his arm went down around her waist. He did not intend to let her go anymore. There was no rush. They had all evening and night. It had been a few weeks since they had left Braavos, and she had come to him, soft and happy to him today. It felt right this time. They stood – she in his arms and leaning into him - near the railing looking out into the darkness. He could hear the waves lapping at the hull and saw white foam curling on top of the black water. Gendry brought the wineskin to his lips and drank from it, several times, and shared it with her until it was finished, although he watched her intake. She asked him which star patterns he could point out. Admittedly he knew little about them, having grown up in Flea Bottom of King's Landing. But Arya recognized some. There was the dragon. And high above them was the wolf. He had to crane his neck to see it. And then there was a chained, muzzled dog.

"Old Nan used to tell me that it was jealous of all the other stars and wanted to eat them. So, the Old Gods chained and muzzled him." He smiled at the idea. "She's probably long dead, now," she said more thoughtful. "At least I hope she is. It would have broken her heart to see what befell to us and Winterfell."

He looked down on her and wrapped her up in his arms, pressing her against his heart. She brought her arms around his neck. "I hope that I can get to see it one day. I passed it from afar, once."

"They sacked it."

"Then we'll rebuild it."

She looked up at him with unreadable eyes. "Promise?"

He smiled. "Hmmm." He thought she had never looked more lovely. He lifted her chin up with his finger and kissed her lightly on the lips. She kissed him back, eyes closed. He opened his eyes and pulled away, dreamily stroking her cheekbone and tucking one the strands of her dark brown hair behind her ear. He saw her shiver. "It is time," he whispered.

She nodded, never averting her big, dilated eyes away from his face. He was totally mystified what had brought the change in her that day, to come to him with such gentleness - it looked like love - in her eyes. He reached for her hand and their fingers intertwined. "Is Brienne in your room?"

She shook her head. "No, she's probably at the bow."

He turned around and saw two people seated there. "Are they lovers?" he asked.

"I don't know."

He brought her hand to his lips. "M'lady." He invited her to follow him to the stern without letting go of her hand.

"M'lord," she whispered back and trailed after him.

He was no M'lord. He was just a king's illegitimate bastard, but it did not matter. As long as he could be lord of her vulnerable heart, he would be content. Inside the Captain's cabin, candles were burning. It was all lacquered wood and golden leaf ornamentation. There were two cots. "Which one is yours?"

"That one." She sounded shy and all innocence, all of a sudden.

He kissed her lightly again on the lips, trying to reassure her, and himself. It would be his first time too. _Please, Lord of Light; let me do it right for her._ He gathered her in his arms and she gave way as they kissed. His hand trailed the side of her neck and their tongues rolled. He felt her hand cling to his neck and pull at the lace that he wore to bind his hair in a bun. His hand wrapped her head around the back and kneaded her hair. He had to break the kiss to catch his breath. "You are so beautiful," he murmured as his fingers traced her face.

"You are beautiful to me too," she whispered, while her fingers draped his hair free to rest on his shoulders.

He embraced her lips again, before exploring the rest of her. He nuzzled her neck and kissed her throat. She swung her head back. He gathered her to him, buried his face in her hair and nibbled her ear. It evoked little yelps of pleasure from her. He wanted her mouth again, more greedy now, and she answered it with equal need. _More!_ He wanted more of her. He delved into her neck and down to her collar bone. He lifted his head and thought she had the most perfect collar bone, while he traced it with his fingers. "Beautiful! He whispered. "You are just so perfect."

She swung her head up and looked down on him with a drunken smile. She placed her hands on his cheeks, and as she leaned into him, he pressed his lips on her chest and the start of her bosom. He nuzzled his nose into her cleavage, and then went down on his knees to kiss her belly through the dress.

"I want to see." His fingers and hands went in search to the knotted laces on the top of her back. He pulled them loose, but found he needed to tug hard. "I may need some help with this," he said sheepishly.

Her hands went to her back and she started to undo them. "Yank the front laces," she said in a husky voice.

He did as told, and the bodice came loose enough to pull it from her. He lifted her arms high, and pulled the blouse she wore underneath it out of her skirt and over her arms. Her milky white breasts were small, but nicely rounded at the bottom. Her small nipples were dark. He admired them for a while. Gendry took a step closer, so that he towered over her again, claimed her mouth and raked his hand across her waist to finally cup her breast. He kneaded it and when he pinched her nipple, he felt it swell between his fingers and heard her gasp. Down he went, covering her with kisses and licked her other breast, making circles, smaller and smaller, until he reached her dark areola and both her Montgomery glands and nipple swelled. The glands looked like gooseflesh. He was not sure that what he did was how it was supposed to be done. All he had to go on was his instinct and need to discover her and find out her response to whatever part of her he stroked or kissed. He looked up at her face to gauge how she liked it. But she had laid her head back and her hands wrapped around his head. She pulled him to her breast. He smiled to himself and took her nipple in his mouth and sucked. She giggled.

Gendry moved to her other breast to repeat the same effect as before, and found it delightful to caress the previous nipple with the palm of his hand. As he felt her hard nipple rub against his hand, his own need became more urgent. His cock strained against his britches. It felt like torture, but one that he wanted to extend for as long as he ever could. As he nibbled her nipple, his hands went down to her skirt and he tugged at it. He let go of her breast, and saw the skirt drop to the floor. He peeled off her underskirt and she stood as naked before him as on her name day.

He admired the mold of her legs, traced his hands across her muscles, and around her shin, before he finally focused on her dark, curly pubic hair. Gendry gathered her up in his arms. She weighed like a feather to him. Tenderly, he laid her on her cot. Hastily he pulled his own tunic over his head and climbed in next to her. His mouth and tongue searched hers again, while her fingernails traced his chest and his arm muscle, sending him shivers down his spine. He buried his face in her neck and sucked. She gathered herself up to him, pressing her hips into his greedy cock, and she whispered his name. He felt dizzy and released the skin of her neck. A red patch had developed where he had kissed her. He could not get enough of her. He wanted to be able to touch every part of her being all at once, kiss and suckle and tease her, so that he would hear her cry his name over and over.

He was panting, trying to regain control again. She looked up at him and smiled. "Do you like it?" he asked.

She nodded, "Yes, Gendry," and pulled him to her mouth again. His hands wanted to feel her nipples rub against his palm once more. But when he reached her breasts, she took his hand and guided it to her mount. His palm stroked her curly, soft hair.

"Do you want me to touch you there?" he asked.

"Hmmm." She steered his fingers to the small fold of skin and then pressed his finger into it. She whimpered.

He tested the area she had pointed out to him with his finger, trying to figure out what it was by touch alone. It felt like a tiny pearl and it was wet. He pressed it and started to rub and roll it gently. This time she cried out and her hips lurched into his hand. He was surprised that it gave her so much pleasure. He did not know that a woman had such a little knob down there, right above her opening. He slid his finger down to gather some slick fluid and used it to rub that secret pearl of hers. Her hips shot up and he realized she wanted him to apply more pressure. Gendry decided he needed to know what it looked like, so he could find it always. He kissed her taut muscles of her belly, kissed her mount and opened her legs. There it was, glistening, upright, hidden in folds like the heart of a flower. He pressed his lips on it, reverently, and blew on it. She sobbed, placed her hands on his head and pressed him down on that little pink pearl. _She wants me to kiss it._ He licked it with the tip of his tongue, and she jolted up and yelped with pleasure. He licked it again and saw her head flay wildly from left to right and felt her nails dig into his scalp.

"Gendry!" she cried in great need.

This was way better than her nipples. And he wondered what would happen to her if he suckled that tiny flower. A low moan escaped her lips and her hips started to move in rhythm as he sucked. He felt how it started to throb, how the muscles of her body tightened and her hands wound his hair through her fingers until she yanked it painfully.

"Don't stop!" she laughed in between her sobs and gasps and whimpers.

He had no intention of stopping anytime soon yet, but then she rose up to him, held him tight and all her muscles were as hard as his cock was. She cried his name again and her breath came in deep gasps. The throbbing of the little bud became a pulsation. And her fluid tasted somewhat salty now. Her body relaxed, but she had not yet told him to stop, so he sucked. She shuddered and tried to push him away, rolling on her side, and she was truly bawling now, tears and all.

He stared at her in amazement. "Did I do it right?" he asked concerned and somewhat uncertain.

Arya opened her eyes and smiled through her tears and sobs. "Oh, Gendry. That was … It was just wonderful. How do you know me so well?" Her body was still convulsing. "Please hold me."

He smiled from relief and laid himself down next to her. She crawled into his arms and buried her face into his neck. He had made her fall apart and she had liked it. He wrapped his arms around her head and played with strands of her hair. His own need was still not yet satisfied, but he could still wait. Her breathing started to relax, and he traced his fingers up and down her spine, all the way to her ass and back, and then he started to fondle her breast and nipple. She sighed, happily. He lifted his head to kiss her, and he felt her fingers glide down to his laces. This time, he did not feel they were doing anything wrong. He helped her with his laces, stepped out of the cot and peeled off his leather pants.

She sat up and looked at him from top to cock and a wicked smile screwed on her face. This time he was the one to gasp when she reached out for the pink proud head. Her hand slid down his shaft and she started to rub him up and down. He gritted his teeth in anticipation. And then he saw her lick her lips. She placed her hands on his ass and pulled her to him. He groaned when she flicked her tongue along the tip. She did it again and he closed his eyes, placing his hand on her head, pushing her closer. Her lips kissed his cock, opened slowly and slid across. He shivered and moaned and gritted his teeth. She sucked, and her tongue did magical things with the head of his cock. Her lips gliding across the ridge up and down made him weak in the knees and he thought he was losing his mind. He nearly buckled, but thrust his hips forward in the same rhythm she sucked him up and down. But when her hand stroked his balls and squeezed one gently, he could bear it no longer, even though his cock was jubilant at the anticipation of sending his seed in her throat.

"Stop, Arya," he whispered, and he pushed her away. She looked up at him in surprise, her lips glistening with juices, and he felt his balls nearly bursting at the sight of it. "I want you," he said, as he crawled back into her cot.

He took her mouth as he rolled her around until she lay under him. He wedged his knee in between her legs and shoved them open. He placed his other leg in between. She was smiling up at him as he looked down on her. He felt with his fingers for her slick opening and supported himself with his other arm, as he grabbed his cock and placed it against her cleft. Gendry looked down to see himself positioned in between her legs. He started to apply a little pressure, and felt the head of his cock glide in the entrance of her opening. She gasped and he panted while trying to restrain himself.

He kissed her on the lips and whispered, "I will try to do it gentle, so not to hurt you."

Arya smiled and murmured, "It will not hurt, Gendry. Don't worry," while she wrapped her legs around his hips.

Startled, Gendry blinked. He frowned in puzzlement. "What? How?" And finally he looked at her suspiciously. It suddenly started to dawn on him how experienced she had seemed before, how willing. She was no maiden anymore. "Who?" She opened her eyes and her smile faltered. He jerked back, away from her. "Was it Edric?" he snarled.

A flash of pain lit up in her eyes and across her face. But the next moment her eyes were full of rage. She slapped him in the face, and had thrown all the power she had behind it. "How dare you!" she barked.

The palm of her hand stung. Shocked, he stroked his glowing cheek, but then bit back at her, "You already gave yourself to someone else." He felt hurt, disappointed. _How stupid was I to fall for her act of today?_ He thought they were each other's first.

She turned into some wild cat, or a wild wolf. She started to kick him and scratch at him. "Out! Get out!"

"Arya!" he said flabbergasted. Still she kicked and scratched until he rolled out of the cot. He fell hard on the flooring. "Oomph. Hey!"

She was yelling at him to get out, to leave her. She threw his clothes at him, kicked him while he was still on the floor, calling him names, and a stupid bull - or was it a stupid stag. He was an oaf and unfeeling, a bloody bastard. And she hated him. His head rang with all the words she threw at him. And then she pulled Needle on him to drive him out. Her eyes were empty - _deadly_ Jaime had called it. He quickly gathered his clothes and made his escape for the door. She slammed them shut behind him, and then he heard her rage inside, grazing stuff from the table. There was the sound of shattering porcelain. She was shrieking and roaring. And then it stopped. A moment later he could hear her howling and bawling with grief.

His heart was bruised and wounded, just like his skin wherever she had hit him. And then his heart sank and he felt all blood drain from his face. _What have I done? I am a fool,_ he thought. _A stupid, bloody, foolish bastard._ He wanted to turn around and go back in and apologize and tell her she was right about him; that he was so sorry. But he feared he would only make her angry again.

"Uhum," somebody coughed.

Gendry looked up, and one of the night crew was watching him while he was leaning on his mop. He realized he was standing outside in the buff, on the deck, in the prickly cold, with the sea wind whipping at him. Seven hells, he was freezing. He turned around and quickly jumped in his pants, pulled his shirt on and tunic and stepped back into his boots. He looked one last time at the door.

Arya was still weeping inside. "I'm sorry," he whispered at the door, his hand tracing the nerves of the wood. "I wish I could undo that." But he knew he could not. _I ruined everything_. He raced for the stairs that would bring him below deck and he thought he would never dare to come out again for shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the age gap thing with a girl this young. Actually there is a law proposal in my country atm that would make it legal for teens from 14 on to have sex with someone no older than 5 years than them, because what actually occurs makes it pretty pointless to round up teens and drag them to court for consentual sex. Mind you, it doesn't mean that a 14 year old is regarded of beng sexually adult. Only from 16 years on, a person is regarded to be able to give consent to any adult of any age. So the new law is limited for people of 14-15 to have a consentual sexual relationship with someone no older than 19-20. And this law proposal is based on a Canadian law.


	10. I Hate You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is no beauty in sadness. No honor in suffering. No growth in fear. No relief in hate. It’s just a waste of perfectly good happiness.” ― Katerina Stoykova Klemer

_I hate him! Hate him!_ _How could he do that?_ One day she felt protected, supported, cared for and loved. And then another day she felt like she wanted to die of shame. One day she felt lust and desire. Then she thought she cared and grew to love him. But now she hated him. _I hate him!_ How could one and the same man know her body better than herself and be so caring - she felt cherished, and oh so vulnerable - and then look at her as if she was no better than a common whore. _Hate him! Stupid, bullheaded bastard! A camel's cunt!_ All because he could not stand the idea he was not there first. All because he had idealized her since she was ten and had been listening to too many of Tom's bloody stupid songs. The Arya he had loved in his mind had never existed. _Him and his stupid M'ladies! All lies! Hate him!_ She should have left him in Braavos or sent him on a ship back to the Wall, him and his bloody stupid ideas of what was right and wrong. He knew _nothing_ about right and wrong. _Hate him!_

He wore nothing but that damned black these days, and looking too damnable hot in it. _I hate him!_ And every time he trained with Jaime, she cheered for every of the Kingslayer's blows that drew blood - every bruise, every broken tooth, and every cut he deserved. _I hope he breaks his nose!_ She refused to carry Widow's Wail anymore. She had thrown it in a corner of the cabin. It was not beautiful. It was a fucking, ugly lie. A stupid heart! _I don't want no stupid hearts anymore! Hate him!_ He drank a lot too, down below but also on deck at night, facing the door of her cabin. And when he did that, he would be staring with those stupid sad blue eyes of his at her door, she knew. _Hate him! I hate him!_ One night she stormed out in her nightgown and demanded to know what he was doing there.

"I'm your Wolf Pack captain, and I'm on guard," he said.

She laughed at him. "There's nothing to guard me from here. You're just being a stupid drunken bull!" He shrugged and took another swallow of his wineskin. "I hope that one night you're so drunk that you fall overboard," she sneered.

He scowled then. His eyes flashed in anger and he frowned so hard he screwed up his face in that way when he had to think hard before giving an answer. _Good! Because I hate him!_ She had turned, not giving him the time to reply, and slammed the door behind her. If he wanted to waste his time drinking and watching her door at night she did not care about it for one bit. So, he continued to _guard_ her, and she continued to bury her hot tears of frustration and pain and hate in her pillow, trying to keep from waking up Brienne. She hated him for that too.

Arya once asked Brienne whether it was traditional at Tarth for women to become a knight. Despite her build and skill, Brienne was mostly a shy, recluse woman, and even spending a few months in the same cabin, Arya had acquired little knowledge or understanding about her. The woman seemed to rely on her privacy and Arya was loath to infringe on it. But Brienne had admitted, rather embarrassed, that it was not traditiona. Her father had indulged her, including refraining from forcing a marriage on her. Arya decided that Brienne's father must have loved his daughter greatly, and it strengthened her own feelings of her dead father for hiring Syrio Forel for her when she lived in King's Landing.

Arya considered naming someone else captain of her Wolf Pack - Edric Dayne - because she knew it would make Gendry hate her as much as she hated him. But she was not sure whether Edric would remain with them beyond Starfall. He had not seen his home anymore since he had squired for Ser Beric Dondarrion. He had no idea whether his aunt Allyria had married someone else. Neither Gendry nor Edric were Northerners, but at least Gendry had to return to the Wall. And her Wolves listened to Gendry, even Edric. They liked him and respected him. No matter how stupid he was, he could silence them with a look and a grumble and remind them of their station. She hated him for that as well.

She did spend most of her time with Edric though. He was handsome, but he also could make her laugh and had an easiness about him that made it hard not to like him. Edric had a pride about his family and ancestral home, not unlike her own. When he talked about Dorne and Starfall it made her curious to see it. She could not even remember whether she had ever met someone who felt as genuinely deep about his home than she did. Gendry certainly never had such feelings and had never understood that part of her. And if her and Edric spending time with each other made Gendry glare over it, then so much the better. _Hate him! I hate him!_

Edric had told her that after Ser Beric had died, he had attempted to go south to return home and reunite with his aunt, but he was forced to flee the Bloody Mummers at the God's Eye. He had taken a boat and it drifted to the heart of the lake, where he was welcomed by the Green Men who guarded the Isle of Faces. "They had been waiting for me, they told me."

"What are they? Are they children of the forest?" Arya asked.

Edric smiled friendly. "Alas, I am bound to some secrecy, and I am not allowed to reveal who or what they are."

"Is it true they have green skin and horns?"

Edric chuckled. "No. They just wear green cloaks and antler crowns."

Arya laughed at herself for feeling like an excited child listening to Nan's stories. It was at the Isle of Faces that Edric had met Rowland Fenn who had traveled there to learn about what was happening to the world when direwolves roamed the forests, part of the Neck was starting to freeze and Winterfell had fallen.

"We both have the most ancient blood in us, the Starks and the Daynes. But our houses have dwindled and are nearly extinct," Edric had said. "There has been no Sword of the Morning since the death of my uncle Arthur, and there is no Stark at Winterfell. The Others have been waiting for such a time to rise once more and claim Westeros for their own. If they win, neither dawn nor spring will ever return."

Arya was almost tempted to laugh at Edric, for believing in such tales, but he looked so serious and worried, she had refrained from doing so. She remembered the Ghost of High Heart and Beric's flaming sword that had scalded the Hound's arm. Perhaps this was an age of stories come again. "So, what did they give you for council?"

"I was to retrieve Dawn and send the Sword of Morning to the Wall, as well as help any lost Stark to get back to Winterfell, and find the Darkheart."

Arya froze when she heard the last. Was it a coincidence that she had just been dwelling on the Ghost of High Heart when Edric mentioned it? What had the ghost been telling her? She called her a wolf child, cruel, and 'dark heart' and ordered her to be gone. _Could I be this Darkheart?_ She remembered the kindly man interrogating her to mentally beat her into becoming No One. How often had she said to him she had a hole instead of a heart? Arya thought about the name she had been given for her last test to become a true Faceless Woman. _Is there more behind it than just some paid contract? Could it have anything to do with deciding whether the Others would win or lose?_

"Who is this Darkheart?" she asked Edric.

He shook his head. "I don't know, but I think they might have meant my cousin Gerold Dayne. He's called the Darkstar. He's cruel and heartless and he has been lost. No one knows where he is."

"Then why did you go to White Harbour and Braavos, instead of Dorne and your home?"

"Well, I learned that a lost Stark child had been found and was safe in White Harbor."

Arya nodded. "Rickon."

"So, I assumed I would first help him get Winterfell back and travel with Rowland. He's a crannogman who could help me journey through the Riverlands and the Neck unseen." Edric's blue-purple eyes turned apologetic. "I offered my sword and service to Wylis Manderly, but he seemed not intent to make any move to occupy Winterfell. He wanted to wait until Rickon is of age."

It was as she had feared. Manderly wanted to have power over her brother and turn him into a puppet. Rickon had to be about eight now, and it would be another eight years before Rickon would be of age. "Did you see Rickon?"

"Aye, and his locked up direwolf." Edric's voice sounded sad but also horrified. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but your brother I fear has lost his mind. He claims to have no family at all. They all left him, he says. There is this wild woman with him, Osha. He says she's his only mother. And he's wild - I mean really feral. He cannot stand walls or fine clothing - rips it to shreds and destroys furniture. And he howls and growls more than he speaks." Edric whispered, "It's rumored he survived in Skagos for several years." He looked at her with sorrowful eyes. "Perhaps Lord Manderly has the right of it to keep Rickon with him."

Arya pitied her younger brother. She had been young and feeling lonely, with every one dying or leaving her _. Hate him! I hate him!_ And she knew what it had done to her. She was No One, maybe this Darkheart. Her youngest brother had been only four when she last saw him. It would have been worse on him. He would have had nothing to rely on to somehow cope with it all. And if he had been forced to survive on Skagos of all places, well ...

Arya nodded and smiled at him. "I understand, Edric. You realized you could not help him, and came to Braavos to sail for Dorne."

"Aye, and Rowland had been ordered by Howland Reed to join me in my quests. But when we arrived in Braavos, we heard talk of a Princess of the North looking for men to join her armed company. I knew it could not be Sansa Stark, so I hoped it might be you."

She had touched his hand in gratitude. Edric had stared at it, confused. "And House Dayne never was able to join the Martells along Aegon's side against the dragon queen," she concluded. "Because the Lord of Starfall was not there."

There was a commotion behind them - Gendry had managed to mark Jaime's arm with his broadsword. He stood there in the middle of the sparring space, tall and legs wide, and was glowering at her and Edric. He truly looked like an angered bull, preparing to attack her, with his broadsword for horns. She glared right back at him, and then whirled around, her nose in the air. _Hate you! I hate you!_

At Pentos they anchored for new provisions. Her men thought to make the most of the stop and wanted to visit the city in search of inns and brothels. But Gendry had ordered them to remain on board. Pentos was not entirely safe, not anymore. The Tattered Prince ruled the city, instead of the Magisters these days. He wanted to be gone as soon as may be. Arya knew he was right. _Hate him! I hate him!_

But they did lay anchor for a few days in Tyrosh, before daring the crossing of the Narrow Sea to Dorne. The port city was busy, all trading business and colorful. She groaned when her men returned with all sorts of colored beards. Hugo Wull and his men came back one night from a brothel with blue beards, as drunk as King Robert. The next day father and son Flint had purple beards, and Morgan Liddle a green one. After that Brandon Norrey the Younger dyed his beard yellow and the Forrester men silver. She had not seen Gendry for several days. At least he had not been glowering and lurking in front of her cabin at night while they lay anchored. And if he dared to board the ship with a dyed beard she would have ordered him to shave it off. When they were preparing to lift anchor, he reappeared with his hair and beard still jet black, but carrying a helmet, a wolf's helmet. _Hate him! I hate him!_ As the Wolf Captain, he had said, he ought to have a helmet and there had been no time to make one in Braavos.

"Why a wolf of all things?" she had hissed.

"I'm a wolf for a long while already, longer than you know, Your Highness," he said with barred teeth, and almost growling, as he hovered over her, his face only a few inches away from her. "The old crone of High Heart dubbed me Black Wolf years ago." And then he stood proudly. "Besides I'm the Wolf captain."

 _Hate you! I hate you!_ She had whirled around and ignored him further. When they finally set sail for open sea, he returned to his self-appointed duty of guarding the cabin, drinking wine and polishing this stupid wolf helmet. _Hate him! I hate him!_

They crossed to Westeros from Essos following the Stepstones. Although it was the narrowest part of the Narrow Sea, it was also the one with the heaviest storms and the hide-out of pirates. Both _Winter Heart_ 's armed crew as well as her men relieved each other day and night to be on the look-out for pirates and Ironborn reavers. But heavy storms kept them at bay. Arya had never sailed in a storm before, and she had never been so sick in her life, forced to remain in her cabin with a bucket. When one storm lay at rest by the morn, another one was sure to follow by midday or evenfall. She soon regretted for ever deciding on this route and was sure they would all end up as wreckage on one of the islands of the Stepstones. But the Old Gods must have been with them, for they managed to reach Dorne's desolated shores - Sunspear and Shadow Town appeared to be in ruins.

"I can't see no towers," Edric said aghast. "The Spear Tower and Sun Tower are gone."

She knew it would pain her to see Winterfell at ruins and she sympathized with Edric over his dismay. Edric wondered aloud whether something similar had happened to the Water Gardens, and told her how he as a young child used to play with the other Dornish children, before he squired for Ser Beric – girls, boys, highborn, lowborn, heirs and natural children. It sounded like a magical safe haven for children that she would have enjoyed very much herself. How novel and wondrous that there was a place where nobody instructed children how or with whom to play. There ought to be something like that in every kingdom, she thought. What a great pity it would be if the dragon queen had destroyed it with her dragon and a Dothraki army, because Aegon's wife, Queen Arianne Martell, had taken refuge at Sunspear after she found herself with child. The dragon queen had claimed Aegon was a Blackfyre pretender, a false king. Whether he was false or true was of little matter. Danaerys had dragons and even rode one, Aegon had none. He had been forced to flee and leave her the Stormlands and King's Landing for the taking upon her arrival. Arya did not know whether Aegon would have made a good king, but he and Arianne had ousted the Lannisters from the throne, while Queen Danaerys had brought wholesale destruction to the Reach, Stormlands and Dorne. She decided there that she did not like the new queen – vengeful and bitter. And yet, she thought, _am I that much different?_ _If I had dragons and a Dothraki horde what would I do with them?_ Building a hot water garden for the children in the North seemed such a better idea.

The rest of the voyage was pleasant, with good weather. It was as if winter had not reached as far as the Summer Sea. But this part was the slowest of the whole voyage, for there were threacherous cliffs and shoals along the coast. Edric had not dared to land in Planky Town and complete their voyage up the Greenblood with the orphans' barges and overland beyond Godsgrace. No one knew what the Dothraki had done inland, nor how loyalties lay towards the Daynes.

When she finally saw Starfall with her own eyes, Arya thought it could have come straight out of one of Nan's stories, with all its high golden colored spires and towers and whitewashed walls sparkling in the sun. It was settled at the heart of an island where the Torrentine rushed into the sea, and it showed no sign of any recent war.

"What do you think?" Edric asked of her with expectancy in his voice.

"It's beautiful! So summery and light."

Edric beamed at her comment. "Welcome to Starfall, Your Highness," he had said, offering her his arm to lead her in, while Gendry walked behind them with a silent grimace. _Hate him! I hate him!_

The castellan and steward called it a miracle to see their Lord safely returned. A feast had been ordered to celebrate the homecoming of the Lord of Starfall. Edric installed her in the tower room of his late aunt Lady Ashara Dayne. Aside from Brienne, her Wolf Pack was to sleep in the lower rooms or the hall, but Gendry butted heads with Edric and insisted on having a room close to Arya to watch her. _Hate him! I hate him!_ Arya had free use of any of Ashara's dresses and discovered that Ashara also had male attire for riding and hunting. Arya even found a beautiful dagger and a bow and arrows in the whitewashed tower room. She used to imagine Ashara had been some courtly looking lady like Cersei. But seeing she must have dressed like a man, like she did, made Arya think that she must have been more than that, after all. It was strange to consider her father may have loved this woman who had jumped from the tower after she learned of the death of her brother Arthur and that Ned Stark had married Arya's mother instead of her. She remembered her fury when Edric had first mentioned it all those years ago. But she was older now. She understood that, before her father and mother were married through circumstance, they perhaps may have wished for someone else. And if her father had perhaps fallen for a fair brown haired woman with violet eyes who hunted and rode horses, she could forgive him that.

All was not well though for the Daynes. Ser Beric's betrothed had been kidnapped recently, after the war of the False Dragon. Upon finally learning of her betrothed's death, Lady Allyria Dayne had set out to return to Starfall over land through the passes of the Red Mountains. Gerold Dayne of the Cadet Branch, had been missing for many years, but he kidnapped her, allegedly to force her into marriage, so that he could become Lord of Starfall. The return of Edric foiled that plan at least, but Edric still wanted his aunt back. He could not leave her in the power of his heartless cousin. His men and women were set to prepare to ride out for the Red Mountains and find them. Although armed women were in a minority of those preparing for the hunt of Darkstar, there were enough of them for Arya to notice and realize that at least at Starfall women doing battle was not something exceptional. One of Edric's sergeants was a woman even.

Of course, Arya Stark's presence at Starfall evoked plenty of gossip. She was a unique beauty – the alluring boyish, petite type that almost seemed to have an ethereal quality. She had traveled from the North to Starfall together with Edric Dayne, along with her own company of warriors. They had no other explanation for it than that she was Edric's choice of a wife, and that Arya Stark would be their new Lady of Starfall soon. "Finally", they said, "a Stark will unite with a Dayne." They hoped that a wedding feast would follow promptly. Arya smiled about it when she heard of it. While she thought Starfall almost magical in its beauty and their acceptance of warrior women warmed her to the region, she had no intention of remaining at Starfall, let alone become the lady of House Dayne. It was even funnier when she noticed Gendry's mood growing fouler by the consecutive days.

While, a wedding had not been on Arya's mind, it evidently had been on Edric's. To her own bewilderment, he went down on his knee for her one evening, not long after their arrival. He had invited her to walk the beautiful citrus and flower gardens of Starfall's godswood.

"Your Highness," he began, lifting her hand. "I have always had the highest regard for the Starks of the North."

She had giggled nervously and whispered. "Lord Dayne, what are you doing?"

With great feeling he had stammered, "P-Princess Arya, w-would you accept me as your husband and Starfall as your home?"

"Edric!" she had gasped, glad the dusk was hiding her blush. She wanted to pull her hand away, but he was holding hers tightly with his own.

"I always liked you, Arya, and since we met again in Braavos I have come to feel admiration and love for you." When she did not immediately respond, he said with some doubt. "Perhaps, you have not seen my admiration grow, and I have taken you by surprise. But if you will have me, you would bring the greatest honor to my house. And in return for giving me everlasting happiness I will pledge my house and my bannermen to your cause to reclaim Winterfell and the North for the Starks."

She blinked at the young lord who looked at her with admiration, his face aglow with feeling, though his words had been rather formal. She could see that the young Lord had spoken truth, though she had never imagined she could inspire such a type of love in a man. It was different than the almost animalistic and possessive kind she had experienced from Gendry. There was no doubt about it that she thought Edric a handsome man. He was tall, had long fine blond hair and eyes that looked almost violet. Though of legal age, he was young still, and lacking Gendry's rawness. But Edric was refined, alluring and kind. _Could I grow to love him, in time?_ Of course his pledge to help restore Winterfell to the Starks with his liegemen was not without value.

She pulled her hand away. "Lord Dayne, I am greatly honored by your proposal, but I admit it has taken me by surprise."

"Do not say no yet, Arya. Promise me you will think about my offer."

She could hear the disappointment in his voice and she could not bear it to distress him by giving him a refusal, without actually weighing his proposal. "I will think about it, Lord Dayne."

Arya hurried out of the gardens only to nearly bump into Gendry who just returned from the stables. He squinted at her with suspicion, and she felt too vulnerable to meet his searching eyes with a stern, reproachful glare in return. She had wanted to race past him to her room. But his hand grabbed her arm just in time in an iron hold she knew would leave bruises afterwards. "Arya?" There was raw pain and anguish along with rage and anger in his voice. It sounded like a threat almost.

"Let me go!" She wrenched her arm free of his clasp. She wanted nothing to do with his pain. It was her life. _Hate him! I hate him!_

The welcoming feast was held the following evening, and she had not eaten such a rich meal since long. It was exotic and spciy. She tried several grape leafs stuffed with different sort of ingredients; like the one filled with raisins, peppers, onions and mushrooms, or another with white cheese and olives to temper the heat in her mouth. The green peppers stuffed with creamy cheese and onions brought tears to her eyes and made her nose runny. She grabbed for a pitcher of water, but Edric shook his head. "Only bread, milk or cheese can lessen the heat. Water will only make it worse." So, she tore a piece of the flatbread and dipped in almond milk and chewed on it. Edric had been right. Gradually, the painful sensation of the spices lessened and went away. The meat that was served was lamb, but she refrained from eating it. Arya never liked lamb. Instead she tasted a hot dish of grilled snake with fiery mustard sauce, and tried to combine it with another piece of flatbread dipped in a chickpea paste. 

There was music and dancing and laughter, and she even allowed Edric to invite her onto the central floor. It was a different type of dancing done in the North or at court. Men stood at one side and the women at the other, involving clapping hands beside the head, shouts and stomping heels of the boots, lifted skirts and twirls, and passing steps to the other side, but without ever touching one another. Somehow, it reminded her of the dressing games she played with Bellegere in Braavos. She was not any good at it, but it was fun nonetheless. But by the time the deserts were served for some reason the earlier joy had left her. There were stuffed dates with honey, creamcakes, lemon tarts and sweet lemon cakes. Though the latter had been Sansa's favorite desert and not Arya's it instantly reminded her of her childhood and home in the cold North. This was not her home. These were not her people. She had no home anymore, really, and perhaps never would have. Despite its appeal, nothing about making Starfall her home felt right. Edric's offer had plenty of advantages, such as house Dayne uniting their forces and loyalties with those of the North loyal to the Stark. And she knew every young highborn woman was supposed to relinquish her father's House. Had the king not died, had her father lived, and had Ser Beric returned with his squire to King's Landing, this may indeed have been the match her father would have promoted. If things had been different, she might have grown happy here. But so much had happened, and she was so much changed. It would not be right.

The feast was suddenly interrupted by an ugly brawl that was quickly taken outside in the yard. But fights were not uncommon to her during a feast. She had seen it happen in Winterfell as well. Most likely it was about one of the serving wenches. It was Brienne who approached her seat and whispered in her ear, "Your Highness, you are required to come to put a stop to the fight. I fear somebody will get killed, and it would destroy our chances to get a loyal contingent from Lord Dayne's service."

Her face grew stern. "Who?" she asked, but already had an inkling.

"Ser Gendry and the captain of Starfall's guard, Your Highness."

She knew it! That blockheaded, drunken fool would ruin everything. _Hate him! I hate him!_ "Excuse me, Lord Dayne; I believe I have to settle some matter outside." She rose, before Edric could inquire after it, and Brienne followed her on her heel to the courtyard. Outside, she heard yelling and hooting. Starfall guards against Wolf Pack stood in a circle around the two men fighting. Jaime was watching it all with a sneer from the side wall. She stomped towards the gathered men, shoved No Nose Ned out of the way and wormed through the throng of shouting men. "Stop this at once! Now!" They had drawn blood with sharp, she could tell. "Now, Ser Gendry!"

He scowled at her, as blood was dripping along his forehead and cheek. Whether it was his or the other, she could not tell. He was panting and staggering on his legs. _Drunk for sure!_ _I hate him!_ The other looked to be in no better shape. His white shirt was soaked in blood along the arm piece. He stood, bent over, leaning with his hands on his knee to catch his breath.

"I will shove both of year heads together if that's what it takes, but you make your peace now, shake hands, and go to your beds to sober up."

Gendry spat on the ground, but did as she ordered him to and held out his hand. Arthur Sand, the Starfall captain seemed to have no intention of accepting it, but the other guards shoved him and told him to do what the Lady Arya was saying - she did not appear a woman to trifle with. Arthur straightened up and finally shook Gendry's hand. She wanted to say something to Gendry as he walked towards her, but he ignored her completely and walked right past her without giving her a glance.

Arya contemplated returning to the feast and just let him stew, but she had enough of it. Weeks - nay months - she had indulged him too much in his insolent, stubborn behaviour and his drinking. She raced after him and flung the door open to his cell close to her room. He had removed his black shirt and was wringing it in the washtub. The water looked deep red. Blood was dripping from a scrape from his temple and a gash in his shoulder. _By the Old Gods, I hate him so!_ "What the bloody seven hells were you thinking?! If you want to get yourself killed, could you do it with soldiers that are foes, rather than friends _?"_

His black, bearded jaw clenched and flexed and he dropped the shirt in the basin with a splash. He turned around and his blue eyes were full of rage. _Hate him! I hate him!_ "Are you going to marry him?"

"I hate you!" she spat.

"Tell me, Arya! Was it him?"

"No, it wasn't him, you fool! It was some fucking forty year old ship merchant of Braavos I was supposed to kill, pretending to be a courtesan. The Black Pearl guided me. I didn't like it, but it wasn't half as bad as I expected it to be."

She saw the blood drain from his face. He turned white as a sheet. "The Winter Rose," he whispered.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" she cried. And then the anger left his face and was replaced with something else. He had figured her out. She could foretell by the shift in his eyes what he would do next. "Stay away from me, Gendry!" she threatened, and she started for the door. "No, no, no, don't you dare." She ran when she saw him lurch for her.

But he was quick as a snake, grabbed her by the arm, whirled her round and pressed his bruising lips hard on her mouth. _I hate you!_ But her own lips and mouth betrayed her. She kissed him as ravenously as he kissed her. She pummeled her fists against his chest, but he ignored it, lifted her in the air and crashed the door of his room shut with his boot. _I hate you_! She moaned and chewed her own lip as he tore at her bodice to reach her breasts with his mouth, while he slammed her against the wall and pressed his crotch into her. _I hate you!_ And she wrapped her strong legs around his hips, as he squashed his erection into her belly. He had ruined the bodice and was sucking her nipple so hard it almost hurt. He devoured her teats hard and painfully. She was panting and gasping for air, while she had never felt such an urgent longing before. Arya was instantly wet for him. _I hate you!_ Her hands searched for the laces of his pants and yanked hard at it. She grabbed for his slick, wet head of his proud cock that sprang free, thick and heavy. He slid her skirt up and searched with his fingers for her little flower, finding it easily enough and rubbing it gently with the right amount of pressure, while he rolled his tongue in her mouth again. She whimpered as she felt her body crying for him in need and her mind was awash with dizziness.

"I love you," he said hoarsely, hungry like a wolf. "I love you! I love you!"

 _I hate you!_ And her mouth sucked his tongue inside, famished, while she lifted her hips in expectation of him. "Fuck me, Gendry! Now!"

She felt his cock searching, bumping against her thigh, while he pressed himself up against her. When he grabbed his cock with one hand and eagerly guided it where she wanted him, she chewed her lip in anticipation and thought she would soon lose her mind. His other arm was wrapped underneath her leg to hold her where they stood, his fingers digging into her thigh. It would leave bruises. She squeezed her legs tighter around his hips to brace herself for the impact. He rubbed the glistening head of his cock quickly several times between her swollen lips. She let gravity help her fit around his cock. And then she felt him finally enter her and her own muscles part for him. His stiff cock pushed into her, hard and deep, and stretched her, and claimed her, and her wet muscles embraced him like a glove. _I hate you!_

She sobbed. The sensation of fullness inside her made her want to beat his back. "More!"

Gendry rasped her name. He was panting rapidly and then retreated, gritting his teeth. _No! No! No!_ But before he was fully gone, he shoved himself in her again. _I hate you!_

"Deeper, harder," she gasped.

He retreated again, and she squeezed her inner muscles to cling to him. He swore to the Lord of Light to have mercy on him in a deep raucous rumble. He slammed into her again as deep as he could.

"Yes!" _I hate you!_ "Faster!"

He let go of all restraint and pumped hard, pressing her tightly against the wall, burying his face in her neck, one arm holding her leg up, the other leaning against the wall. He drove into her, again and again and again, over and over. She had the hardest time to keep up with him, trying to match his pace, making sure her treasure of pleasure pressed against the root of his thick, slick cock and hardly relaxing her inner muscles on him. She could smell herself on him and him on her. The mix of musky smells of the both of them was intoxicating to her like sweet summerwine. Her hands went around his ass, to ride him, and the feel of his buttocks clenching and flexing made her delirious. He thrust into her, harder, faster with every stroke, over and over, grunting with every plunge. His muscles were tightening. All of his muscles, arms, thighs, hands, knees, and chest compressed her.

"Lord have mercy," he croaked. "I won't last long anymore."

She was urging him on, tightening every muscle of her body. The edge was so close and yet so far still. He whimpered. _No wait, not yet!_ Had she only thought it or had she shouted it? She clung to him and waited, unmoving, yet clasping him with her thighs and inner muscles. "Help me get there, Gendry," she mumbled.

He waited. "Don't move!" he said. "Please, don't move."

His mouth sought her lips, softer, more loving, and slowly he retreated partially, before thrusting inside again. She jolted. Yes, she edged closer to the brink and she moaned long and low. His hand coursed through her hair as he leisurely and at length built up the rhythm again. This time she was there to follow him. It was slow, but inch by inch she clawed her way up for the last stretch to the needed height. She did not believe she could tighten her muscles anymore. She was sobbing and his breadth came out rasping. _Now! Now! Now!_ There it was - the edge, and close enough for her to take the plunge. Her nails dug into the cheecks of his clenched ass as she pressed him into her and her muscles squeezed and pressed and clutched on his cock like a fist.

He groaned as he drove hard and deep into her, again and again, kissing her jawline repeatedly. "Come for me, Arya. Come," he whispered.

She cried out in ecstasy and joy, and broke out in laughter. _Yes!_ Her mind and her flower seemed to explode all at once. The sensation rushed from her spine into her brain, and she thought she could reach for the stars. Her body was the milk path across the night sky. Was this really happening? Meanwhile the blood rushed in low, deep pulsations through her pleasure center, into her glands and her inner muscles relaxed and tightened over and over, as the waves of her orgasm lapped back and forth.

She felt him attempting to leave, but she clung to him. "Don't leave me, Gendry! Don't leave."

Gendry whimpered unintelligible words as he speared into her with irregular jolts and filled her with his seed. He kissed her repeatedly. She needed to find some tansy tea tomorrow. He moved inside and out a few more times to spill it all. She relaxed and he relaxed. They slumped against the wall and sagged down onto the floor, him staying inside her though he was shrinking, her legs still around him - their rasping breaths, soaked hair, embracing arms, reaching fingers, sweating legs, and exhausted bodies intertwined.

"Don't hate me anymore, Arya," he mumbled to her with his eyes closed, still trying to catch his breath.

"I don't hate you, Gendry. I love you," she whispered as she caressed his cheek. And he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A spicy, hot scene in a spicy, hot Dorne ;-)


	11. Arya's Daario

Gendry woke with the dawn of light and blinked his eyes to accustom them. In the Riverlands that usually meant a grey sky and rain. In Braavos it had been fog, and while sailing it had been a dark hull. But here in Starfall the yellow painted walls shone golden with the rising sun. He closed his eyes again and nuzzled the neck of the woman sleeping in his arms. Here, in his bed, she was his alone, with nobody else vying for her attention, or him being needed to settle some matter. For several nights she tiptoed to his room silent as a shadow, when all of Starfall slept with the stars twinkling high above them. The door would hardly make a noise in its hinges except for one short creak, and she would wake him up with hot searing kisses.

He rolled his aching and itching shoulder. The cut was finally healing, though the skin around it had been tender and angrily red for a few days, even after Arya shoved him into the maester's laboratory for a poultice. The dressing was finally removed only yesterday. But which man felt aches, bruises and pain when he held his love in his arms or had her come undone beneath him and could plunge into what was heaven every night, several times? The past days of bliss there had been no Wall, no North, no dragon queen, and no danger on his mind. He had longed for her until every fiber of him ached day and night for months, and he was eager to sate that long withheld desire as often as he could and she was willing. And her willingness matched his. In the day he lived for the joy of the nights, and in the nights for the pleasure to exhaust them both. And sometimes, if he was lucky, she cornered him in a private nook of the stables or a broom closet, and they would be able to steal kisses. Once he was so very lucky that nobody was near enough to overhear her giggles and laughter, while he claimed all of her, with her skirts up, as he had done the first time. It had surprised him initially to see her walk around Starfall in revealing, muslin dresses so often, but he suspected she did it for the off chance she had to shove him in a broom closet and to increase his hunger for her whenever he saw her.

Arya responded to his nuzzling in her sleep by shifting her ass against his stiff morning cock. He smiled to himself, and though he did not really wish to disturb her when she was sleeping so relaxed, she was simply too much temptation. He loved making love to her any hour of the day and night, but he believed this was his favorite, when she was drowsy from sleep and their bodies fitted into one another. He could do it languidly and drawl out his own release almost for as long as he wished, with the aim to make her come twice. That was not an easy feat. Sometimes she had no patience for him making her come with his hand or tongue. Or instead, she was already sated by it and she could not peak anymore as he was inside her. And a few times, she had not come undone either way, no matter how much he managed to keep at it, until she ordered him to come. Then she assured him she loved it nonetheless and that it could not be forced. There were the moments also when he had rushed ahead, coming already after a few strokes, and he knew he had failed her own need, and felt ashamed of his sudden lack of self control, and then desperately tried to satisfy her in another way. She did not always have the patience for that either. When he did managed to make her come twice though, it was glorious. He was eager to learn and experiment, to be aware of her responses and find her vulnerable spots that drove her wild. They both were learning. And even in the several nights they had been sharing a clandestine bed it was evident to him, it was not just always the same area, or thrust angle or rhythm. Sometimes complete silence except for the creaking bed and matrass was required, at other times suggestive murmurs or just outright noise. He could never have imagined that sex could be so variable and varied, for the both of them, and that what was perfect one moment was completely useless the next. What did work was opening up and tuning in to one another, and it would make it beyond intimate.

He moved one hand to cup a breast and he pressed his cock against her silky cheeks of her bottom. His tongue swiveled along her neck. Arya murmured unintelligibly and turned enough so he could nibble her ear. Her upper arm shot up to touch his forehead. He kneaded her breast and tugged at her nipple, while the fingertips of his other hand stroked the roundness of her ass, her hips, her curly dark hair and then searched for her secret well of pleasure. She moaned in approval and pressed her buttocks into his cock. He chuckled and then growled, and gently bit the outline of her jaw.

She giggled and called him, "My Wolf."

Arya craned her neck, searching for his mouth behind her. He obliged her and kissed her slowly, teasingly with half open mouth, but withholding her the pleasure of his tongue. She whined faintly in disapproval. He smirked and gave her what she wanted. Their tongues rolled and twisted around each other, until it was too much a strain for their necks, and she would have to roll around and face him for them to continue. But he did not want her to do that. He let go of her lips, rolled her head away and kissed her back between her shoulders with open mouth and grazing teeth, while he started to rub her folds harder. She gave in to the pleasure he was giving her, eyes closed, panting and moaning, her ass bumping into him with wanton jerks. It increased his own eagerness, and in his mind he already imagined her, moaning and gasping as he pumped his desire into her. Arya's hand reached for his hip, tugging at him for him to enter her. Her fingers clenched and her nails dug into him. But he still had control and wanted to delay his own delight. It was never as satisfying as when she came as well. Gendry released the breast he had been playing with and patted the bed to find her other hand. He intertwined her fingers into his, while he rubbed her harder and faster, seeing her clenching body and mouth, hearing her sighs and cries becoming high pitched shrills, and feeling her cheeks jerk against his hard cock without restriction. He was slowly but surely bringing her to the brink to come undone.

It took him all of the self control he could muster not to line his pounding tip with her cleft and penetrate her. _Not yet. When she's there. Right when she comes._ Her breathing grew rapid and she started to stiffen beside him. Her thighs started to clench his hand between her legs. He rubbed her so briskly and with such pressure his fingers were stiffening along with her body. And then he recognized her high pitched shrieks of her oncoming orgasm. _Now!_ He shifted his hip and felt his cock slide eagerly to her dark pink crevice. He penetrated her with one long stroke, all the way until his balls settled against her cheeks. He felt her muscles ripple to embrace him in a tight compressing fit, as he felt the starting convulsions of her orgasm take him in.

"Oh, fuck, Arya," he cried hoarsely in surprise, and squeezed her hand in his.

It was pure ecstasy – the quivering, the pulsing, the flexing and squeezing of her muscles all around his deeply sheathed cock. Her moans were uninhibited cries. Her female scent became heavier and more penetrating. Her small hard button was enlarging and thumped with the unmistaken beat of blood flow, and extended into her cleft. He could come right there and then. But he gritted his teeth and let the sensations of pure delight wash over him. He pulled back, but found it hard to when she gripped him so tightly. He thrust in again, and again and again, over and over, faster, wilder, harder, deeper, rougher, slicker and with the slapping noise of his sweating balls against her wet ass. She cried and yelped, high pitched and wanting, sobbing, her body still rigid and the knuckles of her free hand clutching at the headboard were white. The matrass and the wood of the bed creaked, and the frame banged against the wall. He was losing it. It was coming. His muscles grew increasingly taut and rigid with every lunge.

"Lord, fuck!" he swore, while she ordered him to come, and come now.

He gritted his teeth. His cock was all too happy to oblige her. He plunged into her again, sinking deeper and deeper and even deeper than that. The panic of his imminent orgasm, made him want to pull away to spill his seed on the sheets instead, as he had tried every time before, but it was as if she knew and she tightened hard on him, as if refusing to let him go.

"No. Don't you dare come outside me," she said and ordered him, panting and moaning still.

And then he heard her burst out in laughter and the unmistakable ripples coursing through the muscles of her cleft, a surge of wetness spurting from her, and the heavy, sweet smell from her second orgam, followed by his own blast of shattered self control, through his balls and cock, spurting out of him into her. The discharge raced through his thighs and flared up into his chest in waves, and he buried his head into her hair, whispering her name over and over. The pounding of his cock slowed and deepened, and he jolted as her muscles lapped every last of his seed out of him. He finally relaxed and lay spent inside her, his chest and balls slick with sweat, as well as her back and her ass. He let the afterglow take him and his cock return to its normal size inside of her. She shifted so that he could remain inside as long as possible, before inevitably he would slip out.

He lay panting still with her gathered in his arms, her back still to him, when he murmured, "I will get you pregnant like that. I don't want to beget us a bastard."

"No, you won't. I have herbs for this." Even when she was drowsy, she could manage a directive tone.

He frowned. "What if they don't work?"

"They will. I'm taught in herbs."

 _…_ _and poisons_ , he thought. "I just think it's safer. I don't want you take broths on account of me."

"No, don't." She rolled around, and rested her elbows on his chest while looking down on him. He stared at her every feature of her face dreamily and played with the sweaty hair locks clinging to her face. "Men only spill their seed outside with a whore or a courtesan. I'm not your whore or courtesan, so don't make me feel like one either."

He blinked at her. "Is that what has you worried? That I would think less of you, love you less?" She gave him no answer, but looked at him seriously. He pulled her to him with a smile and kissed her forehead. "Oh, Arya, I could never think that. I would wed you if I could."

"Why don't you?" she whispered, sounding insecure all of a sudden. "Wed me I mean."

Her words startled him. "I-I never… Would you like us too?" He lifted his head to gauge her expression.

She looked sullen and seemed to be pouting. "I don't know." She got up and bent down to pick up her shift from the floor.

He was watching her bare behind pointing up in the air at him with a grin and he felt the urge starting to tingle again, when she bent low enough for him to see the dark pink shadow hidden in there. But she pulled on her night shift and started for the door of his cell to return to her own room. "Wait, Arya." He got up, followed her and took her hand in his. "I would forsake every other vow to have you for my wife, if you'd have me."

"Even that of the Night's Watch?"

He frowned. She was a Stark. Her own half-brother was Lord Commander. Being a sworn in brother of the Night's Watch was something sacred for her. If he were to wed her and forsake the Wall he would be a deserter for real and something inside him told him that in time she would lose respect for him over it. He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked down onto her. "Is that what you really want me to do, Arya? For me to desert the Night's Watch and for you to be an unknown blacksmith's wife somewhere where nobody knows us?"

He tried to imagine it himself with him working in the smithy and her dressed as a housewife and their dark haired children with grey and blue eyes clinging to her skirts. When he was still apprenticing at King's Landing, and had started to accept he would most likely never be more than an armorer smith, he had some vague future image of a buxom blonde housewife, someone like his mother, with plenty of children running around. She'd be sweet and always smiling and humming with a new baby at her breast. And when he dared to allow himself to dream about giving up the forge to turn hedge knight instead, he pictured himself fighting in a tourney with the favor of some doe eyed handmaiden, who would consent to be his wife after he won the prize money. Of course, that was all before he ever knew Arya, before Tobho Mott sent him off to the Wall, and found himself inexplicably drawn to a wild, angry, boyish girl that could kill without batting eyes over it, curse like Lem and kick like a horse, and before long had turned him on. She still stood there pouting, avoiding his gaze. He placed a finger under her chin and lifted it so her eyes would meet his.

"You know you would hate it, Arya, the life of a common housewife." Honestly, he did not want to lead a simple life like that himself anymore, and he probably never really did even. Somehow, Arya had forced him to break out of the cage that he had been force into by society, sometime after Harrenhall, somewhere in Riverrun, and discover a whole different animal inside of him than a bull. The old hag on the hill of High Heart had been right. The wolf was fine by him.

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "I guess."

"You would like it to be more like the life of the dragon queen or .. or Queen Nymeria. I know that. It's one of the things I love about you."

She started to smile a little, and then a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "Yes, I could be like the dragon queen, and you could be my Daario."

"Ugh!" he grimaced. "No, not your Daario. Not if it means I have to witness you wed suitors high and far above me with titles and land. No, let me be Ser Gendry, famous Wolf Captain of my Queen of the North." He winked and smiled. She giggled and gave him a kiss, before trotting off to her own room as she did every morning.

They had jested but he pondered the conversation nevertheless. The truth of the matter was that he simply had not believed her to want to wed him. She never came across as a romantic, but instead practical. She might agree to a match for the strengthening of an alliance, as Daenerys had done several times, and she probably would chew those men up and spit them out afterwards, exactly like Daenerys and her dragons. Arya still had not given her answer to Edric's proposal, although it ate at him, like some poisonous snake eating its way through him. But she would have been foolish to lay the offer beside her without any consideration, he told himself over and over. The green snake was there, because he had no lands, no esteemed name from the Age of Heroes to give her, no army either. Then there was his accursed vow to the Night's Watch as well. And, of course, he did not want to share.

What had possessed him to put her in that awkward position of taking him as her lover under the roof of one of the most illustrious families of the country while everyone there expected her to marry the lord of the house? His mind wandered back to the first time he had taken her the way he had. _Talk about a happenstance fuck!_ It was as if all his desire for her spilled over like a broken dam. She had shouted how she hated him, warned him to stay away, and yet he had rushed over to her and refused to let her go and basically fucked her against the wall forcibly with what seemed little consideration of her own needs. He had behaved almost like an animal to his memory. _All the pent up feelings and anger and jealousy had gone right to my head and cock, that's what._

But that was not entirely true. When she expressed all of her hate for him, something had clicked. He had been dreading exactly such words for the few months at sea, but when they gushed all over him, it had not been even half as bad as he feared. Instead, he had seen right through her lies. He had learned she had been the short lived courtesan Winter Rose in Braavos and it somehow had cleared his head from all the jealousy and anger, until all that had been left was a need to reassure her he desired and loved her with every fiber of his being. He had realized she could only hate him so if she loved him and he had claimed her love for himself alone. She had returned his passion as fiercely and as eager the moment he kissed her, taking him between her legs, unlacing his breeches. Hell, she had ordered him to take her, how fast, how deep, how hard, and to wait, to consider her and help her come. They had been two wild animals wanting release. He regretted none of it, despite his vows of the Night's Watch, despite the ferociousness of the act. Only the ripped bodice and bruises of his imprinted fingers on her legs made him feel repentant and ashamed – over which she had laughed heartily- and he had kissed every one of them many times that first night and applied the ointment the maester had given him for his bruises over his fight with Arthur Sand the following one.

He slid his hands through his loose hair and pulled it together with one hand while snatching his hair lace from the washing stand. He knotted it together and strolled towards the little window looking out onto the courtyard. Horses were being hauled out of the stables and prepared for the ride ahead. They intended to leave for High Hermitage to save Edric's aunt out of the Darkstar's clutches. Gendry walked back to the washing stand, poured fresh water in the tub, splashed some of it in his face, on his chest, under his armpits and then started to wash the remainder of his seed and her fluids from his cock. He smiled a highly satisfied grin when he remembered how he had been inside her thrice that night.

"You worked hard," he said to his cock. He felt a stirring at the memory. "Yeah, I know you are very happy to be in such a high demand." It went away. He grabbed his black leather breeches. "Time to put you to sleep. You're tired."

He put on his black tunic and his belt with the scabbard and watched himself in the little mirror, still grinning about himself. He felt his black beard and decided to shave it off. In the heat and the dust of Dorne it only itched too much. Besides, Arya had asked him whether he intended to grow some Northern beard, as if she preferred him without one. And before he set out with Arya's Wolves and Edric's men to liberate Edric's aunt Allyria, he wanted her to see him leave how she thought him most handsome.

He jumped down the spiral stairs, skipping steps, to the great hall. The other men were up as well, together with Lord Edric who was also dressed to ride out along with them. He approached the laden breakfast table as hungry as a wolf. The night exercise increased his appetite majorly, he thought smiling contently, when he noticed Arya seated next to Brienne in her manly garb. His smile faltered and he scowled with dread. In three strides he was seated next to her and whispered between his teeth, "What do you think you're doing?"

She flashed a smile at him. "Be that warrior queen you were talking about."

"This is a dangerous mission we are setting out for today. So, no."

She lifted her eyebrows at him. "And since when do you make the decisions for your princess?"

"Since…" She cocked her head to the side, already knowing what he was going to say. "You share my bed and have been talking marriage," he hissed.

"So, if I say a marriage is off the table and decide not to share your bed anymore, then you will let me make my decisions for myself?" She jabbed her finger in his side and he flinched.

He wanted to groan. But instead he said cockily, "You couldn't resist me, if you wanted to."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'll ride with my Wolf Pack to High Hermitage, Ser Gendry. And I know who'll be seething along the way at night all by himself in his bedroll." She rose and whispered in his ear with her scalding breath. "I like you without that beard." She turned her back on him and he suspected she sauntered outside in those damnable leather pants, hips swaying, on purpose.

Gendry cursed himself for his own big mouth, when he knew full well that nobody could keep her from doing what she wanted. Of course he had expected to sleep alone anyway. But that was far easier if she was not around him, teasing him. He had thought the lovemaking of last night and morning would have quenched his cock's desire at least for the next few days, but she had him all riled up and excited already in just a few minutes.

They all set out well before afternoon on horseback. "The Sword of the Morning," the servants whispered when Lord Dayne appeared in the yard, with Dawn on his hip. But Edric grinned sheepishly at him before donning his helmet and straddling his saddle. In that moment, Gendry saw the young squire with the Brotherhood, instead of the grown man, even though Edric had more battle experience than him and had always shown great courage.

Lord Dayne almost said apologetically, "I am not sure whether I am worthy yet of that title, but who else is to carry the sword?"

Gendry looked at the crannogman riding behind them and suspected Rowland Fenn had talked Edric into claiming it. He eyed his father's war hammer swinging from his hip sling. He had never used it so far, though he had tried to train with it on a dummy. In a way he understood Edric's apprehension of carrying a weapon of stories and legends. It felt weird, as if people would expect them to fill their forbearer's boots and become the new living legends of their age. But Gendry was still just a blacksmith bastard in his mind, despite being a wolfish sworn knight in his heart. And he recognized Edric probably still thought of himself as Beric's squire, rather than Lord of Starfall, let alone the Sword of the Morning. _Had Robert Baratheon ever felt this bizarre when he rode out for war against the Mad King? Had Eddard Stark? Had Jaime Lannister?_

Solely Arya seemed unaffected by the role she was expected to take in all of this. She looked the warrior princess alright, with her dark hair whipping, her icy stare, two swords hanging from her belt. When he saw her riding, it left little wonder why they were following her and why Jaime had paid such respect to her the day he swore fealty to her. Still, Gendry could not shake the feeling they were not all that different from the three children riding out in the rain in the Riverlands more than four years ago. And with the memory of Arya throwing a crabapple at him as he had been forced to ride behind her and Edric, Gendry nudged his horse along, so that he flanked Arya along with Edric. If everyone saw his father as he was in his youth when they looked at him, he might as well try to play the part too.

Apart from the Wolf Pack, two hundred men – and women - in Starfall's service rode with them. With that many men their pace was slower and it would take at least three full days to reach High Hermitage. They traveled along the Torrentine that carved its way upstream through the vales of the Western range of the Red Mountains. The name for them was well chosen. Aside from valleys where the Torrentine rushed through violent rapids and cascading waterfalls, the land was arid, dry and rocky. He had never seen such wild and dry country. The soldiers warned him that the night air could be nippy. Gendry shook his head at that. These men did not know what true cold and winter felt like. Only those who had been to the Wall really knew, and of those only the Northern Mountain men and Gendry had been there.

"So, what is this High Hermitage?" Gendry asked during their night council. When he learned it was the home of the Dayne Cadet branch and rose above a canyon, he shook his head. He looked at the looming shadows of the high rocky hills behind him and across the Torrentine. "Then they already know we're coming." Edric nodded as if this could not be possibly a problem. Gendry scowled and glowered at Arya for being so foolhardy to ride with them. "This Darkstar only has to send his men to kill us from above in order to become Lord of Starfall."

Edric and his men looked shocked at the preposition alone. "He is not the sole Dayne of the Hermitage, nor even Lord of High Hermitage."

"So your plan is simply to ride out there and prove you are alive and demand that the Lord of High Hermitage relinquishes his son's betrothed?"

"Ser Gendry," said Arya.

He snapped his head in her direction. "What? I want to assess the situation we are riding into."

Arthur Sand sneered at him. There truly was no love lost between them. Gendry had never revealed Arya what their fight had been about, but the man had made some crude remark about Arya. "Darkstar is a rogue and ousted by his own family. We are riding for High Hermitage to ask them to join us in our aim to capture Gerold Dayne and free Allyria Dayne. He has stained their honor as Daynes and they will do anything to get it back."

"So, it's comparable to the Karstarks aligning with the Starks," Gendry grimaced cynically.

The Starfall men nodded in agreement, but Arya at least was chewing her lip, Edric did not dare to meet his gaze and the Northern men of the Wolf Pack started to sharpen their swords and battle axes and set up their own sentries and scouts day and night.

When Arya departed from the council to sleep, Gendry went after her immediately. He reached for her arm. "Arya, I urge you to take two of our best riders along with you in the morning and return to Starfall."

"No," she said as stubborn as she ever was and shrugged him off.

"Lord, Arya, we might be walking into a trap here." He had no patience for her stubbornness to do everything herself. "Don't be so obstinate. Your brother Robb trusted the Karstarks, but those who remained north and out of the war, aligned themselves with the Boltons first chance they got. Edric doesn't know how exactly the Daynes of High Hermitage feel about him. He hasn't seen Dorne since long before the war. And aside from the Cadet Daynes, there might be Dothraki roaming the hills here."

"Rowland Fenn knows."

Gendry laughed. "What would a man from the Neck know about Dorne and the Daynes?"

"He has the green sight," she hissed.

He did not know whether he ought to laugh or cry. "You are letting a fortune teller determine our plans for us?"

"You trusted Thoros about what he saw in the flames."

She was right about that, and he knew how little of use it was to argue about it with her. Still, he tried by saying, "Arya, I'm only trying to watch out for you."

"I'm not a child anymore." And yet her scowl, her pout and her stamping foot told him otherwise.

 _No, she isn't, but she damn well acts like one, right now,_ he thought. "Fine."

"Fine!"

"I'm still keeping watch tonight." He wondered whether Danaerys' Daario had similar reasoning issues with his dragon queen.

She shrugged her shoulders, laid out her bedroll and crawled into it, with her back to him. "Do what you think is best, Gendry."

And he kicked his boot through the red dust in frustration, annoyed with her as well as himself. Were they ever not going to argue and fight?


	12. The Matchmaker

She raced through the snowy woods. Her little brothers and sisters gave chase. The human without a man claw ran, stumbled on his two paws and looked back at her - a mistake. His eyes were big and wide as a doe, and almost as white as his skin. She could smell the fear of him along with the water he was letting flow on his human hides with two blue manstones. Like wolves, humans formed packs according to the pelt they had and their man-howls. This man and the others with shiny man claws had howled "FREY!" at her pack when she and her little brothers and sisters attacked. The Frey pack, she knew, had murdered one of her older brothers, a long time ago. She had felt it when they shot their little claws into him. And it had wounded her as much as when her big sister died. This one, she knew, had met her giant kind before. She could see it in the fear of his cruel, mean eyes – recognition. The hungrier of her pack were already feasting on the shiny humans that held their shiny claws and the horse he rode. The human stumbled and she was instantly on top of him. He fought as she bit his jaw and jugular, trying to kick and scream and reeked of hate. "Can't… grrrrrllllblglrkrl…" She gorged on the blood spurting in her mouth. Human prey were different from other prey. Like all other prey they feared her. But they seemed not to accept the law of life, not even with their last breath – that they were going to die. But all prey must die. All prey.

 _Valar Morghulis_. Arya woke with a shudder and the memory of the taste of blood. It had been a while since she had a wolf dream, although she had many of them, but she could not remember them being as vivid for a long time. It was the first wolf dream she had since she set foot on Westeros again.

Gendry snored close to her and she realized his hand was around her waist. She smiled. They had not shared their bedrolls ever since they left Starfall, and he was still upset over her decision to come with them. But by dead of night, he would lay down his roll beside her when he thought she was sleeping, and hold her. Sometimes, she thought, she could not be deserving of his devotion. She knew she was cruel to him. He just worried for her and felt it was his responsibility to keep her from harm, but he had to learn that she would make her own decisions. All man must die one day. She had no fear of that. But she did fear that one day he would decide to leave her again. Her testiness and her opposition was her way to learn by his actions that he would stay. She did not have any faith in vows or words of love, even though he spoke truthful. He had told her in Braavos the reasons why he had abandoned her for the Brotherhood, and her mind understood and empathized, but the pain of the little girl Arya did not. It had been more than just the loss of trust and a feeling of betrayal. But she did not know what yet exactly.

Quietly she lifted his hand and crawled out of her bedroll to sit at the fire, next to Rowland Fenn. He was as tall as she was – hence little – but nevertheless muscular. He had brown, long wavy hair. She was not sure of his age. He could have been in his twenties or thirties. And his almost surreal green eyes always startled her.

"You were dreaming," he said. It was not a question.

"Yes."

"Tell me of your dream." He had a soft, gentle voice, almost dream like. She had never told anyone about her dreams, not her wolf dreams, nor of the horrors she had seen in Riverrun. And she was reluctant to do so now. It seemed Rowland felt her unwillingness and he said, "Some dreams are not like other dreams. We have dreams about the people we care about or fear, about what we lived through. These dreams help us to deal with our emotions. Everybody has those kind of dreams. Then there are dreams that when we wake up we know suddenly what to do or what will happen, days, weeks or even years ahead. I have these type of dreams. But there are also dreams where we see what is happening in another part of the land through the eyes of another, usually an animal."

Arya sucked in her breath. _He knows_. "Have you ever had a dream like the last?"

He shook his head. "No. But I think you have."

She feigned not to confirm his suspicion outright. "What does it mean if someone has such dreams?"

"They are the dreams of a skinchanger," he said and added another log to the fire. Arya chewed her bottom lip, remembering Old Nan's tales about skinchangers. Horrific tales they had been of shape sifters and men being trapped in the mind of a beast, or the beast taking over the mind of the man. Skinchangers were commonly seen as witches or mages of the most lewd magic there was. "It is said that only one man in a thousand is born a skinchanger, and one skinchanger in a thousand is a greenseer."

Arya pulled her knees up , wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her head on her knees while staring in the flames of the fire. She was unsure whether to believe Rowland's implications about herself, but if this was true, then she did not want to end up with her mind trapped. Her No One whispered in her mind, "Anything can be used as a tool to deliver the gift, why not this?" The last convinced her she needed to learn about this skinchanging, and she finally whispered. "I have wolf dreams."

Rowland nodded. "Then you are a warg, Princess. Dogs are supposed to be easy, wolves are harder. Tell me of your dream, princess," he urged again, and bumped his elbow into her side confidentially.

And she told him about the giant she-wolf she dreamt about. It was always the same one. There were other wolves in the dreams, the size of normal wolves, and they followed her - many of them. She always dreamt when they hunted.

"What do they hunt?" Rowland asked her softly in a whisper.

Arya blushed, and whispered in a very low tone, "Mostly men and the dogs and horses with them. A sheepfarmer once." And then she felt even hotter as Rowland's green eyes watched her intensely. "Often they are Freys, sometimes Lions. I-I taste the blood." She could taste the metallic flavor of blood again. Nymeria had killed a Frey tonight, one with mean eyes and a hooked nose and a cruel mouth. 

Rowland whistled. "A man-eating she-wolf. Do you ever feast on the flesh in your dreams?"

She vehemently shook her head. "No, just the kill, and then I wake up."

The crannogman nodded and stared at the flames, like she did. "Good. I'm no skinchanger, and I cannot teach you much about it, but I do know it is in the Stark blood, and that some things are taboo - eating flesh of men is one of them."

Arya shuddered, relieved that the wolf dreams always stopped before that. "Are there other taboos?"

"Yes, but I do not know what they are, princess." It was not much that she had learned, but it was enough to start out with. Arya wondered who the wolf was though. It was as if Rowland could read her mind, because he said, "You had a direwolf once, I believe?"

"Aye, Nymeria. I threw rocks at her to make her run away when the King's men were hunting us – her and me – after we attacked Prince Joffrey for hurting a friend of mine at the Trident."

"So, you always dream of the same she-wolf, larger, stronger and bigger than a normal wolf, and she hunts with a large pack in the Riverlands." Rowland looked up at the stars. He pointed upwards. "Do you see that bright star? That's Nymeria and she has hundreds of stars trailing her to battle for her."

 _She's alive. Nymeria is alive… hunting men._ And then she felt a sudden sadness. Lady had been killed by her father, because Queen Cersei wanted it so. Lady had been her sister's wolf, and Rowland said it ran in the Stark blood. All of her brothers and sisters had a direwolf pup from the nest, even Jon. Did that mean that all of them had this ability? And what would be the consequence for Sansa? She had a sudden thought. "Can a warg also enter the mind of a cat or another animal when they are not dreaming?" She never had any cat dreams, but sometimes she could see and smell things if she wanted through the eyes of a cat that was close in her neighborhood. She had seen where her tormentor with his stick in the House of Black and White had been through cat's eyes when she was Blind Beth.

"A strong one, yes, I believe so." He smiled at her and patted her knee.

Maybe, if Sansa was a warg too, she could do it with other animals, like Arya did with cats. She rose. "Thank you, Rowland. I will need to think about this."

Just as she stood, all hell broke loose in the camp. The sentries sounded the alarm, just as men came roaring down in the dark, on horseback and on foot with swords and spears. Within seconds everybody was up and armed, hacking at horses and riders racing through the camp intent to create chaos. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya instantly held Needle and Widow's Wail in her hands, for she had never slept without them the past three nights. A foot soldier raced towards her, sword held high above his head and screaming his attack words. _This one's easy_ , she thought. _Stick 'em with the pointy end_. _Swift as a deer._ She ducked and drove Needle into his stomach, and slashed Widow's Wail in his neck as he stumbled. Blood sprayed in all directions and his body tripped over his entrails slipping out. Some of the muck had sprayed on her face, and she wiped the sticky blood out of her eyes. She blinked to take note of his sigil, three oak leaves on a yellow background.

"Oakheart!" the attackers shouted. But Arya saw riders too with long black braids and bare chests. Dothraki, she realized.

In the corner of her eye she saw Edric slaying two attackers with Dawn. But she saw one of her wolves' head chopped off by an arakh. It had been one of Wull's clan. She looked frantically around for Gendry, and finally saw him in the thick of things, wielding his hammer with one hand and his broadsword with another. With one blow he unseated a Dothraki and drove his sword into the man's bare chest, sending the Dothraki's horse teetering on the gravel of the canyon, until it stumbled and shrieked in pain. The blow had simply smashed and ripped the Dothraki's side to pulp. _Gods, that man is strong._ _Strong as a bear._ But there was no time to admire his strength as a rider charged her head on. He was going to trample her, if she did not move. She tensed to jump and slash at the rider's horse with Widow's Wail - _agile as a marten -_ when she felt herself being grabbed in the neck and lifted from behind. She twisted and turned to stick the man with Needle - _fierce as a wolverine_ \- but he managed to throw her in front of his seat and kept on racing. He was wearing a desert garb and a shawl in front of his face, like Edric's guards did. But she saw no sigil and the sole thing she could see from him were cool dark purple eyes. She fought and kicked, but he just kept on riding hard, away from the chaos and the camp. And the last she was aware of was black clad, blood covered Gendry looking at her with his mouth open in what she thought was a "Noooooo," while running in the direction her captor was taking her. Then, all went black.

She felt dizzy when she woke. Her head was throbbing from the blow. The light streaming in from an arrow hole hurt her eyes and head. She looked away and she needed time for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. It was round and she realized she was being kept in a tower. Arya tried to move and was relieved to find she was not in bondage. But every muscle hurt her, when she tried to stand. Her weapons were taken from her, including the dagger she kept up her sleeve and in her boots.

"You're a feisty little thing, aren't you," a male voice said casually.

She snapped her head in the voice's direction, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through her temples because of it, and peered into the darkness. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ He stood in the deepest shadows of the room, leaning against the wall without a care for anything, before stepping closer to reveal himself. He had long, white silver hair, except for a streak of black, an aquiline nose and dark eyes that gleamed dark purple when a ray of light from the airhole fell onto his noble looking face. He looked about twice her age. "Darkstar," she said.

He smiled, but it was a cruel smile that never reached his eyes. They were hard eyes, _hard as dead rock_. "Yes, I am him, though you may also have heard of me as Ser Gerold." He approached her. He moved like a cat, supple and quick and he had no fear of her. None. Not because he underestimated her, but because he feared death as little as herself. "And you are this Princess of the North, Arya Stark. One of Ned Stark's three daughters."

"Two daughters," she corrected him. "I only have one sister, older than myself and she is called Sansa." Arya scanned the room for anything she could use to attack him or defend herself.

"Don't bother," he said. "The room is empty, for both our safety." He stepped close enough to face her, but just at far enough a distance to deflect any bodily attack she might make. She stepped away from the wall and to the side, to give herself more room. He watched her with an amused grin when she did that. "I met your father once, when he passed my home, on his way to Starfall. I was still a boy, about to squire for Oberyn, the Red Viper. He seemed just an ordinary man, like my cousin the legendary Arthur Dayne was a mere mortal. So many stories and which of them are true?"

Arya frowned. This man spoke in riddles on purpose. She decided to ignore the bait. "Why did you take me?"

"Out of curiosity." He was not lying. "I watched you all for at least a day, but I don't think your companions really know what you are. The women are quick to take the spear here, as hotheaded as the men. They think they are deadly, but death is cold, not hot. You are a killer. Like me."

Arya stared into his eyes that seemed to reflect the stillness and coolness of her own back at her. But his were cruel. "Not like you."

He laughed. "Oh, but you are." He stepped back to the trapdoor and opened it. "If you feel ready, you can come downstairs and meet my betrothed." He got down and left the trapdoor open.

Once Ser Gerold had left the room she went to the arrow hole to determine where she was. It was but a lonely tower in a canyon of the red mountains. She waited for a while and peeked through the doorway to assess the room below her. It was sunny and lighter there, because of a window. Still, she was hesitant to climb down, fearing some kind of trap. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Until she heard a woman's voice that rang clear and pleasant. Arya decided to climb down the ladder towards the voice. If that was Edric's aunt Allyria Dayne, she did not sound much like a captive at all. When she landed on the floor below, Arya whirled around in anticipation of a possible attack, but saw a lady who was perhaps not seven years older than herself - around the age of Jon or Robb had he lived, perhaps slightly older. The woman was smiling at her as if everything was as it should be.

"I guess you must be hungry, princess." She looked lovely and much like her cousin, except she had dark hair, grey-violet eyes - the kind of purplish grey of a storm about to rumble and release lightning - and a rather long face. If Arya did not know any better, the woman looked like a female version of a mix of Jon and Edric. "Come, sit with me," she invited Arya. "I'm Lady Allyria from Starfall."

"You are not a prisoner here?"

"Gods, no," she laughed. "Ser Gerold and I are in love." Darkstar had his back to them and was looking out of the window. For some reason Arya did not believe the man she had talked with upstairs could ever love anybody, only death. Edric's aunt must have lost her wits after hearing the news about Beric. Allyria reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "I am here, because he is here. He's been outlawed and exiled from High Hermitage."

Arya whispered. "You do know why he was outlawed, don't you?" She had heard he had tried to slay princess Myrcella at some point, cut off her ear and killed her Kingsguard Ser Arys Oakheart.

"Ah, yes. It was all lies to cover up the treason planned by Arianne Martell to prevent the Lannisters from starting a war against the Martells and Dorne."

Arya assessed Darkstar again. He had turned around and met her gaze. She knew it was not a cover up. He had tried to kill the Lannister princess, but Allyria looked so much in love with the man, she could not see what he was. "Are you married then?" And she felt she was holding the woman to a double standard by asking it.

"Not yet," said Allyria.

"Lord Dayne will not sanction it," said Arya, more as a message to Ser Gerold than Allyria. His lips curled.

"Oh, but he will, Princess Arya, once he learns I am here of my own choice. You will make sure of that."

"Me?" Arya's eyes darted from Allyria to Ser Gerold and back.

"Yes, that's why Gerold brought you here, so you could see for yourself and bear witness of it to my cousin." Allyria had risen from her seat and walked towards Ser Gerold, putting her arms around him and laying her head against his shoulder. Darkstar had placed his own arm on her shoulder, while his evil smile deepened and his eyes remained as dead as the first time Arya had seen them. It gave her the chills. _He's a snake_ , she thought.

Darkstar left the room after that and Allyria suggested she could have a bath to rid herself of the blood of the attacker she had killed. Guts smelled awful. Her hands must have been washed as was her face while she had been out of it. But she was still wearing the boiled leather she had been kidnapped in. Allyria offered to cleanse it for her as best as she could under the circumstances. "We were under attack," Arya said, trying to make some conversation that would make her current situation less surreal.

"I know. Gerold told me. The enmity between Oakheart and Daynes has a long and old history. There have been skirmishes ever since Arianne and her father lied that Gerold killed Ser Arys Oakheart, but as long as the Tyrells and Martells were united behind Aegon it was kept to a minimum." She poured hot water in the tub that stood in the rather pleasant tower room. "Since Danaerys Stormborn ousted them from their seats though, the Oakhearts have started an open war against the Daynes. The dragon queen has forbidden the Dothraki to pillage Westeros as they are accustomed in Essos, so they sell their swords to any house in Westeros that plans a raid. The Hermitage has hired a khalasar as well to raid in the Reach." Then she spoke as a proud Dayne. "Do not worry about them. I am sure that most of your men and Edric have survived the attack. Gerold told me that Hermitage was already after them and close, when he took you to safety."

Arya was less sure of it. The outcome of the night raid was not something she wanted to dwell on though. There was but little she could do about it now, whatever had happened. Instead, she hoped to make the woman see her own folly. It reminded her too much of Sansa's blindness about Queen Cersei and King Joffrey. It was as if she was sharing a room with her sister all over again. Arya started to undress. "Lady Allyria, Lord Edric will never make his peace with Ser Gerold."

"But it was a lie," Allyria insisted, while she managed to make her gentle features look stubborn. "The Hermitage has exiled my Gerold, and yet the Oakhearts still raid the passes. So, if it does not matter to the Oakhearts, then why should the Hermitage and Starfall not make their peace with him, especially since it would bring a union between both our houses."

Arya suddenly felt pity for the woman who was so in love and spellbound to a man who did not care about her. He did not even need to hide who he was. Just the words and his looks were enough for her. She poured in the last hot water in the tub herself, dropped her breeches and stepped in. "I lived and traveled with Ser Beric and his knights in the Riverlands for a long while," she said.

Allyria looked up in surprise and her eyes seemed to glisten with memory. "He was very handsome, wasn't he? And very noble."

"He was," agreed Arya. Well he had not been handsome anymore when she met him. Then he was already maimed in all sorts of ways that made it hard to look at him without getting queasy. "It was my father who sent him the Riverlands to arrest the Mountain for his savage crimes in the Riverlands. But he was ambushed." Arya was not sure how much Allyria really knew, and she chose to give her the safe version. "Lord Edric saved his life, and instead of returning to King's Landing after King Robert's death, they remained to protect and fight for the innocents, for the villagers and farmers, who fell victim to the war being fought between my brother and Tywin Lannister."

She told it for Allyria, but by doing so, she started to realize that Ser Beric had been a man she admired now, even though as a child of ten she had been angry that they refused to join her brother's army and they intended to ransom her. When she compared the story of how the Faceless Men came to be and Dondarrion's choices they were not all that dissimilar – they acted for the common people, for those who always suffered. The big difference was that one hoped to end the suffering with the gift of death, and the other by protecting and bettering their lives. And in that regard, R'hllor and the God of Many faces were each other's opposite. It made her wonder about Gendry's beliefs. She knew he was a follower of the Red God. But she shook any thought for Gendry off, because it would lead to her wondering whether he was even alive still. She had to believe he was.

"Your cousin is a kind man with a generous heart, Lady Allyria, but he feels greatly for the innocent, and Ser Gerold is not completely blameless of wrongdoing. He may not have slain Ser Arys. He may not have cut off Princess Myrcella's ear. But he was involved in her kidnapping." When Arya thought of princess Myrcella, she only could remember the girl's crooked stitches during the embroidery session at Winterfell. She had been of similar age as Arya, younger even, shy and gentle. Kidnapping a girl of ten and one to start a war, even if she was a Lannister, was just despicable, even though it was not what had killed her. "Neither of your actions are above suspicion."

Lady Allyria frowned, and her face remained pretty when she did it. "I know. I am sorry we felt the need to take you here by force. I just do not want a confrontation. There is no need for bloodshed."

Arya said, "The Kingslayer rides with me, Lady Allyria. Princess Myrcella was his daughter. Even if Lord Edric would make peace with Ser Gerold for your sake, I doubt Jaime Lannister will."

Lady Allyria took her hand almost if pleading. "But he's of your guard, princess Arya. You must tell him it was not my Gerold who maimed her. And he certainly was not involved in killing her."

Arya felt nothing but pity for the foolish woman. Still she knew she would not stand in between either Lord Edric or the Kingslayer if they were to fight Darkstar. And if Gendry lived, Darkstar had another enemy in him as well. This tower would not hold against the host that had been riding, certainly not if High Hermitage had joined them.

"I am with child," whispered Allyria. "Our first. He's an innocent too. Please, do not allow for it grow up fatherless."

Arya had expected Allyria to say a _bastard_. Then she reminded herself that the Dornish had shown no disregard at all for natural children. She liked them in many ways. Women were not the last heir in line and they were admired if they took up spears, and being a bastard was not something shameful. But Darkstar had been right about one thing. They might be hot headed and liberal in many ways, they also all seemed to have an almost childlike innocence about them that was alien to her, except for this Darkstar. Perhaps, Allyria was right and she wrong. Maybe, Edric would forgive Gerold Dayne for his aunt's sake. "I can't make any promises, Lady Allyria," was all she could commit to, but it seemed to satisfy Allyria's anguish.

She saw little of Darkstar for the ensuing days. Allyria said he was scouting on Edric's host. Meanwhile she was stuck in the tower to spend time with Lady Allyria. I thonse days, Arya felt listless, bored and Allyria's singing grated her nerves. She reminded herself constantly to pity the woman to keep herself from lashing out at her, like she used to do with her sister when she was still a child. And as her boiled leather outfit was drying, she took to borrowing Allyria's dresses, even though they were too big for her. She neither had Allyria's bosom nor her height, but with the help of Allyria's stitching skills she made due. The one that fit her the most was lush red of the lightest fabrics. Days and days passed, before Darkstar reappeared one evening on his horse. She was curious whether he would tell her who had survived the attack, but he remained moot.

Arya chose to sleep in the dark attic room where she had woken the first day then, while she could hear the sounds of their coupling beneath her. For a moment she hoped it would at least give her some evidence that he cared for Lady Allyria, but in that too he seemed to take what he wanted without any sort of return. It reminded her of the nights she had shared with Gendryat Starfall. He loved nothing more than to please her. Even if he did not always succeed, at least the evidence that he tried was often satisfaction enough. The following day, she felt almost nauseous when she could see how Allyria gushed with love for the man, and yet he made no effort to even smile at her for it. He was crass or would make some dismissive remark and roll his eyes expressively at Arya for his paramour's behaviour. And not one word he said about the host, other than Lord Edric leading it.

She slept lightly the next night and woke with the apprehension that someone was in her attic. "Why are you here, Ser Gerold, and not pleasing your lady love?" she said sarcastically.

"She sickens me to death," he answered. He was not far away from her. She tensed her body in preparation for an attack of him. She may not have had her daggers with her, but she knew how to immobilize someone if there was need for it with her bare hands. Bellegere had taught her that trick. "No need to fear me, little princess, although I think we are a better match than she and I. I chose the wrong daughter."

"You speak in riddles again, Darkstar," she said and he chuckled. Arya sat and looked at the area where his voice came from. He was hunched down against the opposite wall, with his elbows leaning on his knees, and his hands hanging intertwined between his legs. "She loves you," reminded Arya him. "She carries your child. She lives with you here as an exile in this stupid tower in the hope to clear your name. Does that not mean anything to you?"

"No."

"Then why did you seduce her?"

"Because I felt like it at the time."

Arya knew nothing else to say and so she remained silent while she studied him. She noticed a large package lying beside him. He shoved it her way with his boot.

"Here," he said. "I believe these are yours." She reached for it without ever letting her eyes stray away from him, and slowly lifted the simple cloth. It contained her daggers as well as Needle and Widow's Wail. "My game is up, princess, and I loathe to live with _her_. They will be here by dawn. Do it quickly and hide it from her. At least it will be of my own choosing by someone who is a true killer and done in the night, for I am of the night. I do not want some boy wielding a sword without having proved himself worthy of it yet to slay me." She could almost hear him smile, when he said, "Or that paramour of yours with his hammer who'd ride his horse to death to get to you as fast as possible."

 _Gendry is alive_ , was her first thought. And, _he wants the gift_. The only other time somebody had asked it of her, it had been the Hound. She had let the gods take care of it themselves without her aid then. Sandor had not long for the living anymore. A part of her was ashamed of that now. The kindly man would not have thought well of it, she knew. But this man was well, young, and very much alive and she knew not whether he had actually ever killed someone. He could have everything other people yearned for. "Why would you want to die, Darkstar? They say you are the most dangerous man in Dorne. I know you care little for others, and you claim to be a killer, but are you? Sounds like your reputation is based on little. You slashed off the ear of a young girl, and that is all I know to be a fact."

He gave her a wan smile. "All men have a reputation based on mostly lies with little fact. Your father, my cousin, myself. You know nothing, Arya Stark. I have killed, not many, not as many as you have, but I could have and I wanted to. I killed Balon Swann when he came looking for me. Prince Doran led him straight to me to dispatch him. But that is not really what makes me dangerous, no more than you." He leaned towards her and his eyes bore into hers. "I know things, dangerous secrets. Allyria for example believes herself to be Edric's aunt, but she never was. Both her father and mother are different people than those who claimed it to be." He smiled at her. "And you, princess, you believe you have four brothers and only one sister, while it are but three brothers and two sisters."

"What are you talking about," she hissed. "You know nothing of my family."

"More than you," he said darkly.

"Then tell me."

He shook his head. "Figure it out for yourself, little princess of the North. My hour has come, and I will take my secrets to my grave."

She felt her anger rise. He had finally goaded her into asking about his riddled speech, and of course as soon as she did, he enjoyed not telling her anything. Fine, he wanted to die. She could let Jaime do it. And yet she heard the kindly man whisper in the back of her mind, how the gift was an answer to a persons's prayer, and Darkstar was asking it of a servant of the Many Faced God. She pulled the cloth towards herself and picked up the dagger with the long thin blade. She had taken it from the guild's storage room.

"I thought you would pick the Valeryan one," Darkstar whispered. Slowly, Arya rose and with soft steps and in her smallclothes she hunched down before him. His eyes met hers, and again she saw coldness and death reflected back into them. "Everyone must die, sometime," he whispered, his eyes twinkling with a flicker of excitement.

"Valar morghulis, we say in Braavos."

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "So, that is where you were taught?"

She nodded slowly. "Is this your prayer to the Stranger, Ser Gerold Dayne?"

"Yes," he smiled. For the first time, she could see something of humanity in that smile, even though it was all for himself.

"Valar dohaeris," Arya whispered. Gentle, like a lover almost, she placed her hand around his head. He lifted his hand to touch hers and stared into her eyes until the very end, when she drove her dagger underneath his left ear and severed the artery to his brain. He slumped to the side, and softly she laid his head down, while his life left him, though his eyes looked no less dead to her than when he was alive.

Arya removed the blade when he was dead and wiped it clean with the cloth that held her swords. She watched over him until the break of light, just as acolytes had done in the temple as respect to those who came to drink the gift and lay down on the bench behind their chosen god. Had he died there, he would have been brought to the lower vault by the morning for his face to be taken and hung from the wall. She knew several who would have made good use of it, both the handsomeness of it as well as the cruel mouth. But this was not the temple and she was not a true Faceless Woman yet, nor could she ever wear a man's face.

She gathered the daggers and swords while going down the ladder and closed the trapdoor quietly. Then she woke Lady Allyria, nudging her shoulder and whispered, "They are coming, Lady Allyria."

The woman opened her eyes and smiled at her, but then she noticed Ser Gerold was not in the tower room. Her eyes revealed a growing panic. "Where is my Gerold, Princess Arya?"

"He told me it were best if we both meet them first so we can clear his name." It was a lie. "He wanted you to be safe." Another lie. He had never cared about Allyria. She suspected that part of his wish to die by her hand was inspired by denying it from anyone who wished to revenge himself on him.

But it satisfied Allyria and she never asked about him anymore, when they left the tower and walked towards the dust created by a host far ahead of them. As she strode with fast steps towards the oncoming host, with the red dress flying about her legs, her moist britches and boots, one rider separated itself from the many and raced ahead. He wore nothing but black, which Arya thought was suicide in the desert heat.

She grabbed Allyria's hand and pulled her along. "They are here, Lady Allyria."

Allyria giggled cheerfully and another rider broke free from the ranks. Gendry jumped off his horse, took three giant strides and lifted her in his arms. She smiled at him and kissed him. "I thought I'd lost you," he said in anguish and crushed her tight to him. "again."

Edric embraced his aunt in relief, and asked, "Where is that rogue? Has he fled?"

Allyria turned to Arya with a smile, the hope and joy shining in her eyes. Arya shook her head at Edric. "No, you will find him in the attic. He's dead. It was his last request."

Allyria's eyes turned from joy to horror as she tried to break free from Edric's hold and race back to the tower without much success. "No, not my Gerold! Please, not my Gerold! Oh, please, princess Arya, say you did not do this thing."

Arya gripped the arms of the woman mad with grief tightly. "You live, Lady Allyria! Swear to me you live! He wanted me to do this, for you, for your unborn child. No leaping from towers. Not here, not in Starfall. A death for a life, your life and that of your child." Allyria collapsed and clung to Arya's feet, begging over and over for her Gerold, while Edric and his host stared at the lady Allyria in shock.


	13. The Paramour

It had to be some of the most anti climatic rescue attempts Gendry could have ever imagined when he had seen two figures in bellowing, flapping dresses, walking in the canyon against the horizon almost, stumbling over rocks and traipsing around boulders. Both had dark hair flying in the hot desert wind - even though the sun had barely risen - one in a bright red dress, the other wearing purple. They could have been sisters from afar, except that one was small in stature, the other taller. He had spurred on his horse the moment he caught a glimpse of Arya. And when he was close enough, he swung his leg across to slide off, land and catch her in his arms to check on her for himself whether she was still whole, nowhere bruised, broken or god forbid raped. He did not want to believe his eyesight alone. He needed to feel it with his hands and his body that she was alright, and alive. Gendry might have ridden together with Edric hard for as long and as fast they could without killing the horses to find Arya, and the lord might have gone on his knee for her in his lush citrus gardens, but she was his to hold.

Days and nights he had imagined the worst being done to her. It was like the Hound all over again. Arya had distanced herself from him the day he begged Ser Beric to take him for a knight. That was when she had sought out Edric's company, rounding High Heart's circle with Edric instead of him the second time they visited it, and he had been too frustrated to known what to do about it. Arya ignored him completely and it had hurt more deeply than he could have foreseen at that young age. He had tried to bridge the gap between them and ride with her and Edric. He had even foolishly believed, she would take him for a friend again without a second thought. But she turned her cute little, freckled nose up at him. As the stupid fool he was, he could not hide his jealousy of the boy. He had become a sworn knight with the Brotherhood to one day have his chance with her, but what was a sworn knight to a Lord with a legendary name and an illustrious castle? He would have no chance with her brother then. King Robb would marry her off to Edric over him for sure.

And then Arya ran. He had known she would. She had tried it earlier that day. And he could read her plan in her angry, hurt and ever so lonely eyes, when the men of the Brotherhood discussed what to do with her if her brother and mother were not in Riverrun anymore. It had suddenly hit him how lonely she felt, being talked about like she was some horse to be sold. He had felt ashamed of Lem, Harwin and Beric as they were talking so - _and I chose to join that kind of Brotherhood over her and her beloved brother_ , he had thought guiltily. That was what it must have looked to her. It was not just that he had decided not to smith for her brother, but that he had betrayed her for men who only saw her as a bag of money.

He sprinted after her immediately, calling out to her. He wanted to tell her that she was more to him than a bag of money, that he cared… a lot… a lot lot… as much as a fifteen year old boy who had no family of his own could care. But in the grey curtain of the pouring rain a shadow with a hound for a helmet on a mighty warhorse suddenly jumped in between them. He had shouted, "Behind you! Arya! Arya! Behind…"

And just like that she was gone. Frantically, he had run for his horse to go after them. And it had taken three men – Lem, Harwin and Anguy – to subdue him then. Beric had stared at him strangely, while he demanded they should all go after her immediately. But they wanted to discuss it first. Sure, they were angry about the Hound having her, but not for the same reasons.

"He stole her for the money," Tom had said. "We've taken his prize money of the tourney, and he took her to ransom her."

"He's going to give her to the Lions!" Gendry had cried in a rage. "Sell her to the Bloody Mummers."

Beric had given him that queer look again and then smiled and laid his hand on his shoulder. "No, I don't think so, boy. Sandor has left the Lions. There's a price on his head for desertion."

"Yes, he will," he had insisted. "He will use her to get them to accept him again and they will kill her."

"She'll be more than likely kill him, if she gets her hands on a knife," Anguy joked.

Still, Ser Beric had smiled fondly at him. "He'll be taking her to her uncle or her brother at the Twins, Gendry. Probably wants to offer his service to the Wolves."

"Well," Tom Sevenstrings said, "then let him have her. She'll be with her mother and brother soon. It's what she wanted after all. It saves us from having to go to Riverrun and be clapped in irons by the Blackfish."

"So that he gets the ransom, instead of us?" Lem Lemoncloak had growled. "No way! I say we go after him and take her back for the money. The Lord knows we need it."

A big fight between the camp over whether to let the Hound do the job for them or getting her back for the money themselves ensued. He had been more than appalled. They claimed to be about protecting the innocent. And Arya was just a child and therefore just as innocent as a farmer's child. While they were shouting amongst themselves, back and forth, they were losing more time and the Hound was getting further and further away with his Arya.

It was the first time he spoke with weight as an equal to them. "I joined you lot, because you claim to protect the innocent people who never asked to be in a war, who have no say in it. But it's a lie. All you see in Arya is her Stark name and the ransom that would get you. She's a child. She never asked for this war, nor had she any say in it. She saw her father beheaded, her sister captured and was dragged off onto the King's Road with the worst rabble from the black cells with her hair hacked off to look like a boy. We barely survived Ser Amory's attack with just two grown men and four kids starving in the woods, and they all died, except for Hot Pie, Arya and myself. We were taken prisoner by the Mountain to Harrenhall, awaiting the moment we'd be tickled. Then she was put to work as an errant girl and later as a cupbearer, only to escape before Lord Bolton would leave Harrenhall for the Bloody Mummers. The worst of it all is that she was often the one who saved and pulled us through. She's a fucking child, a little girl of ten and an innocent and she deserves to be protected just like any other child." Gendry spat on the ground. "You put your own ideals to shame. If you do not do all you can to save her from the Hound, then give me a horse and let me go after her. I owe her that much for saving my life a few times before."

The tattered group of outlaws had cast their eyes down and shuffled their feet.

"Enough!" Ser Beric had hollered. "We're going to the Twins, catch the Hound and deliver the girl safely into her brother's hands our very selves. We leave by daybreak and rest now. It will be a hard ride tomorrow to make up for lost time." He turned and faced Gendry and smiled at him with sympathy, clapping his shoulder. "We'll get her back, Gendry."

So, he had stayed with him, but always pushed them to go faster and ride longer than Ser Beric allowed. They had called him nuts, but Beric told them to leave _the boy_ alone about it. Of course, they never caught up with the Hound, and then Thoros saw the most dreadful images in the flames of the most vile slaughter at the Twins. "They killed him," Gendry heard him whisper to Beric. "They killed them all, under their roof, during the wedding feast. The Wolf king is dead, and so is his mother."

"Lord of Light, save us all," Beric had whispered aghast, turning Thoros away from Gendry, when he noticed Gendry was trying to listen in. "What of the girl? Did you see her? Was she there?"

Thoros shook his head. "No, I saw neither hound nor wolf cub. Fuck! They killed them all, Beric."

"Well, let's hope the Hound got there too late and the girl lives."

The Brotherhood learned of it the following day and they swore that the Freys would pay for it. Ser Beric was so shocked that he spoke little, except for the one time he searched him out and said he was sorry. He was angry then, with Ser Beric for taking too much time to decide to go after Arya, with Lem, Harwin and Anguy for stopping him to get on his horse, with Arya for being so stupid to run out all by herself, but most of all with himself for abandoning her, and at night he prayed to the Lord of Light to keep her safe; that the Hound had never reached the Twins on time. There had been a new brawl between the men. Some wanted to keep on searching for the girl if she was alive, or forage the Frey lands to make them pay for what they had done. Others argued it was of no use and they needed to return to the woods and protect the common folk. Neither Ser Beric, nor Thoros were of much help. They were both too shaken by it. And then they happened upon Lady Catelyn's corpse and Ser Beric had looked at him right before he gave her his last breath. With her mother he had stayed. At least with her he was sure the search for Arya would continue. But it had taken fucking four years of his life to find her the previous time someone rode off with his Arya.

He was frantic when he saw the rider in his desert clothes pick her up in the air and drop her on his horse. He himself had slain two already, when he saw Arya being carried off. Something snapped. Gendry had been surrounded by six or seven men and all he wanted was to hammer them out of his way in pursuit for Arya. In three or four swipes he had killed three more, as if he had been hammering away at steel in his forge when he was angry. A similar fury and deadliness had taken hold of Edric. He had slain four men with Dawn. But the rider was long gone when Gendry reached his horse and they were still under attack. Two of Wull's men had fallen as well as Torghen Flint and Royland Degore.

The Oakheart-Dothraki attack had been a desperate attempt for Edric and Arya's host had been many more men in total. An Oakheart man they interrogated told them they were all that was left of a host sent to attack High Hermitage. They had been on the run, when they happened upon Edric's encampment and supposed Hermitage's host had split their company. Even if Edric's numbers were still far greater than their own, their chances still seemed good, for they could come down on them at night. They were wrong. Their captive had no idea who the mysterious rider had been, but he did not sound to belong to one of them. Edric was sure the desert, riding garb marked him as a Dornishman. By the time High Hermitage's host had arrived, all that was left for them to finish off were those who still had enough life in them to twitch.

Their leader, Lord Ulrick Dayne, a man in his fifties, welcomed his far cousin back into Dorne, but widened his eyes when he noticed Dawn on Edric's hip and went down on his knee, his head bowed. Even at his age, his features and ash hair made him look younger than he was. "House Dayne of the Hermitage avows their fealty to the Lord of Starfall and the Sword of the Morning."

A younger man who could have been his son in his early thirties beside him followed Lord Ulrick's example. _All these Daynes look alike_ , thought Gendry, _almost silvery ash blonde hair, blue eyes with a shade of violet and tall_. Lord Ulrick was almost as tall as Gendry. And with Edric still having a few growth years ahead of him, he might actually reach Gendry's and Brienne's height one day. But they were not as broad shouldered as him. Gendry's strength lay in brute power and speed, the Daynes' in leanness and agility. He imagined the Targaryans looked somewhat like that, although he had never seen one himself. And yet, they had been living in Westeros since at least the Long Night, long before the Targaryans came with their dragons to conquer Westeros or the dark haired Rhoynar set foot in Dorne when Queen Nymeria landed with her ten thousand ships.

"There was a rider, last night," said Edric. "He wore Dornish riding garb for the desert and took a highborn guest of mine captive in the thick of the fight."

"That would be my younger brother, the exiled Darkstar," said the man who had bowed after Lord Ulrick. "He's been prowling these parts for a while now, but we've never caught him."

Edric introduced them. "Lord Davos, please meet the captain and paramour of my most honored royal guest - Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill." And then to Gendry, "Ser Gendry, this is Lord Davos Dayne, heir of High Hermitage."

 _He knows_ , Gendry thought. And then, _of course he knows, we thought we were being discreet, but not really._

Lord Davos looked him up and down, no doubt noticing he wore black and was not wearing any sigil. "We do not know this Hollow Hill," said Davos, "and you and your hammer must be sorely missed at the Wall, but you are welcome and we swear we will help you get your Lady back."

"We sure will," Edric swore. "He has my aunt and now princess Arya Stark."

Lord Davos whistled and looked at his father who gave him a curt nod, before revealing, "We know his hide out. It's a watchtower beyond Blackmont, on the right arm of the Torrentine." Gendry squinted at Davos. _High Hermitage knew Darkstar's whereabouts all this time._ At least Lord Davos had the decency to smile apologetically at Edric. "We were caught up with the more pressing business of the Oakhearts trying to enter Dorne with the Dothraki. But you have mopped up the remainder of them."

 _It's more likely you thought to let Darkstar have his way with Edric's aunt and have him claim Starfall in the process while you hoped Edric was as dead as Ser Beric_ , Gendry thought. _Too bad for you lot Edric came home._

"Then let's get to it," said Edric.

Without Arya in between them, Gendry's respect for Edric grew. They had a common goal - to get her back. And Edric conferred with him as an equal. But Edric's behaviour also puzzled Gendry. After all, Edric had asked Arya to be his wife and let Gendry know he was aware what had been going on under his own roof. Still, Edric displayed no jealousy or resentment over it. If it were him, Gendry would have smashed the rival's face in with his hammer. He had every intent on breaking Darkstar's skull in that way. Gendry wanted to understand how Edric could be so complacent about his affair with Arya, but dared not ask the man himself. That would just be even more awkward. Instead, he reared his horse to ride by Jaime's side, and tried to gather his mind on how to breech the subject.

Jaime sat relaxed on his horse, at a walking pace, whistling the tune of the Dornishmen's Wife. Gendry slacked his shoulders hearing it, as it was about a man getting killed for sleeping with the wife of a Dornishman. Jaime flicked his eyes at him and one corner of his mouth curled into a knowing grin. "So, are you going to talk or what?"

Gendry scratched the back of his head. "What's up with the Dornish?"

"How do you mean?" asked Jaime.

"Well, they're queer. We all know Edric asked Arrya to marry him, and he believes that she and I euhm... well... euhm... you know." He could not finish his sentence. His face had flushed hot as far as his hair roots.

"Anyone with eyes, ears and half a brain knows you've been mooning over her for months and that you get under her skin just as much. Then there are the rumors that you've had a nightly visitor in your cell in Starfall, and apparently pleased the mystery lady so much that Edric's seargeant has been itching to warm you in your bedroll. It's not hard to put two and two together."

Gendry looked away to hide his face that must be red as a beet by now, but also to hide a small smug smile that he was considered to be skillfull. "Then why isn't he acting jealous?" he finally asked.

"The Dornish are hotheaded and possessive about their wives," said Jaime, before he leaned closer to Gendry and whispered, "but much less obsesses about claiming their maidenhead, as the rest of us men. They like their women with some experience under their belt." He sat up straight on his horse again and clacked his tongue to urge his horse at a faster walking pace. "Most probably because the women are very eager for experience, and there are very little virgins to be had in Dorne. I even doubt that the gentle Princess Elia came to Rhaegar's bed a virgin. And Edric's aunt Ashara had an affair with Ned Stark. If Ned's foolish brother hadn't come ranting to King's Landing about wanting Rhaegar's head, and Ned hadn't been obliged to honor the official bethrotal with Catelyn Tully before the rebellion, Arya's father probably would have officialised his bethrotal to Ashara."

"How do you know that?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne mentioned it; that his sister had done very well for herself and would be so lucky to procure a happy, political marriage of love soon, not long before Arthur disappeared with Rhaegar for the Riverlands. I even asked him why he didn't mind that a second son of the Warden of the North had an affair with Ashara. His answer revealed he saw no dishonor in that; that none Dornish men were too uptight about maidenhood. He did not begrudge her a love affair before marrying, and since Ned was suitable for marriage and willing and Lord Rickard's communications were promising, so much the better."

"But Lady Ashara jumped from a tower. So, Lord Edric doesn't love Arya then."

Jaime shook his head and grinned evilly at him. "I wouldn't necessarily think that. He knows he has one advantage over you - he isn't bound to the vows of the Night's Watch, so he probably thinks he might win her yet when Arya comes to her senses."

Jaime's dig at his vows hit the mark. Oh yes, Gendry wanted to marry her alright. _I only vowed because I thought she was dead._ _Melisandre tricked me into it. She revealed to me that Arya was with that bloody guild and sent me on my way to steal her away from them, only after I vowed my life away to them._ Had she told him earlier, he would never have made that vow. Of course he would have gone to Braavos, but he would never have returned Arya to Westeros. Melisandre had used him because of his feelings for Arya, while securing his honor to bring her where the red priestess wanted her, at the Wall. And certainly after Darkstar took off with Arya, he had often thought, _I'll marry her, so nobody will ever steal her from me anymore._ An unwed princess was too much of value to ambitious men of the likes of Darkstar, for ransom, for forcing marriage and get their greedy hands on her legacy. But then he remembered he was bound by his vows and that it probably would be the most shortlived marriage ending with his head getting chopped off before the bedding. And what good was he to Arya as a headless corpse.

As it turned out, Arya as always could take care of herself. She had done it all herself – killed the Darkstar and freed Lady Allyria, just like she left the Hound to die and got on a boat to Braavos, or threw weasel soup on the prison guards in Harrenhall and helped Bolton's army to take it from Ser Amory, or killed a Bolton guard while him and Hot Pie had been shaking in their boots to make their escape from Harrenhall. He looked at her, as she explained them why Darkstar had kidnapped her and Lady Allyria begged her feet it could not be true that she had killed Darkstar. _Hell, yeah, believe it Lady Allyria. She's been killing her captors since she was ten. Nobody ever gets away with taking her prisoner for long._ She stood there, in that daring, flapping red dress, above her leather pants and weathered riding boots, and managed to make it look both too hot to handle and regal all at once, leaving Gendry and surely Edric as well to feel rather inadequate. And to add to his own shame, he had the biggest hard on over it.

She nodded at Edric's captain. "Please, keep her away from the tower." Arya turned. "Follow me, I'll take you to him."

"I-Is it true what my aunt says?" Edric nearly stammered.

"Yes, Lady Allyria lived there willingly and believed that I would mediate between you and Ser Gerold." Lord Ulrick and Lord Davos threw her dark looks, which she seemed totally oblivious about, or pretended not to see. "So, he loved her then?"

Arya shook her head. "That he didn't. I saw plenty of love with her for him, but none from him."

"Still, it would have sorted this mess out without bloodshed," said Davos with a voice bordering anger.

Arya turned to meet his eye, though he was over a head taller than her. "He prayed for it, Lord Davos. Your brother came to me in the night and begged me to kill him. He thought his life was forfeit anyhow, and he wanted to die in a manner of his own choosing, that would avoid Lady Allyria witnessing it and possibly being rash in a way that would get her and his unborn child killed."

She managed to stare the elder brother down and he blushed with shame. _It's their own fault_ , Gendry thought. _They should have captured him themselves._ _Instead they should bless their lucky stars that Darkstar begot Lady Allyria with a possible heir to Starfall._

It had been one of the cleanest kills that Gendry had ever seen. There had hardly been any blood spilled and no sign of any struggle. The sight of it, gave him the chills. It took more than just knowledge to slay a man in his healthy prime who neither threatened nor defended himself. It required a certain mind on death that he could barely fathom. Anger, rage, fear, revenge, justice and duty, he could all understand. He would have almost described it as cold, and yet that seemed not an apt description either. Both his death and how she had laid him down, as if in sleep, screamed at him as if Arya had done it out of kindness to the man, almost like a gesture of love.

That was when Gendry finally realized that she still carried the assassin within. In Braavos the red priests had told him how the Many Faced God was worshipped. How people would go there, praying for death to end their suffering, and could drink from the poisonous well and would find eternity in their sleep at their preferred god of death. _She called it a prayer, what Darkstar asked of her._ The whole scene in the attic looked like a ritual, an extremely intimate ritual of peace between the assassin and the man praying for death. It disturbed him deeply, even though it was almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the dead Darkstar. And then his body revolted against this alien outlook on death. He turned and tried to keep from retching, but the little his stomach held was thrown up, just as he tore his eyes away from the more than perturbing scene.

Arya looked at him with a pitying smile, as if she knew he could never understand it. Hell, he did not even want to try to understand or know the process that had enabled her to regard finality in this manner. And yet, he also felt a pang of jealousy. Obviously, Darkstar had understood that darkness inside her, or he would not have asked it of her, nor would have accepted it so peacefully. Darkstar and Arya had shared a final moment intimate in understanding. It made him less sure whether he even knew who or what Arya was, and that this could ultimately lead him to lose her forever to the darkness that had been cultivated within her by her damnable guild. He had been a blind fool for too long. He had thought of the Faceless Men as a group of assassins for hire with a neat trick up their sleeve to camouflage themselves and knowledge on how to kill someone as if it was an accident. He had thought of them as mummers performing a play. But it went far deeper than Gendry could have ever imagined, and it scared the hell out of him. He felt as if he was looking into a bottomless abyss, when he looked at the dead Darkstar and Arya's grey, cold eyes.

But the father, brother and cousin were blinded by the peaceful scene and thanked Arya for honoring him. Edric decided to make it Darkstar's final resting place, ordering the tower to be tore down in part to construct a cairn for him at the foot of it. "Just like Lord Eddard Stark has done for my uncle at the Tower of Joy. We will call this the Tower of Sorrow from now on." He sent both men of High Hermitage as well as Starfall to get his aunt back to Starfall the very same day. Meanwhile, Gendry helped with breaking the stones of the Tower of Sorrow and building the cairn, as an excuse to keep his distance from Arya who wandered off to sit with her Wolf Pack, or what remained of it.

Later, he watched her sleep in her bedroll in their camp by the Tower of Sorrow and remembered Melisandre's exact wording of his mission – "Steal the Darkheart." He had preferred to push that ominous title for Arya to the back of his mind all too readily and for way too long. He had thought that _stealing_ solely meant convincing Arya to physically leave the guild and guide her to the Wall. His lovemaking had been for his own need to be with her. But after seeing how Darkstar had died and had been laid to rest by Arya less than a day before, he knew Darkheart was not just some impressive title and that Melisandre's commandment was actually meant for Gendry in particular. For the first time, he realized she actually required him to steal Arya's heart so that the darkness within her could never win out, not just for himself, not just for Arya's sake, but for all of their sake. And had the Acting Commander not pressed it upon him that if he needed to break part of his vow in order to get her back to Jon, he could do so? _Hell, Jon Snow himself had fallen in love with a wildling woman and broken his vow for the realm._ Gendry reached out to touch her hair and caress her face lightly with the back of his hand. He sat like that until sleep begged him to rest. He rolled out his bedroll next to hers and wrapped his arm around her.


	14. Nymeria's husbands

Arya woke with the dawning of the light. She opened her eyes and stared into Gendry's sleeping face. His hand was on her hip. His eyelids fluttered and twitched. _He's dreaming._ His jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. She realized it was not a good dream. Was it the attack he was dreaming about, her kidnapping or dead Darkstar? Perhaps it were battles and other horrors he had seen when he was still with the Brotherhood. He had told her little about it, but he let on enough about it that she knew it had not ended well, that he had escaped the Riverlands by some stroke of luck, and that before that time even things had turned very wrong. Perhaps he was dreaming about all of it, like she did.

They both had their secrets. They knew the big storyline of each other, but almost none of the details. Not the who with, nor the how, and least of all how those experiences had carved into their souls to scar them for life. But he had seen something of her secrets the day before in the tower's attic, or was the sole witness there to recognize it as such. And it had upset his stomach. She knew it had not been death itself that had done it to him. Not even when he was still a boy and the poacher died on them did he turn white at the site and stench of it. No, it had been the peaceful scene before his very eyes, the same one that made the others thank her, that had upset him so much. Gendry knew about her temple and god even before he reached Braavos because he had been told to search her there. And he certainly would have learned about the way the House of Black and White answered prayers; during his stay there, while he was out searching her.

She remembered there were only two type of responses to the priests of the Many Faced God when they walked the streets and canals of Braavos. Those who were scared, and those who were reverent and grateful. And they all made sure to mention their names to the robed priests when they walked Braavos. Bravosi introduced themselves as soon as they could to anyone, believing they could not be killed if one of the guild knew their name. Of course, the assassins knew the names of their targets. The knowing rule meant simply they did not share a past, beyond the name, with the target. She had broken that rule often nonetheless. There had been the deserter of the Night's Watch, and Raff the Sweetling, although him had been a stroke of luck. She had been told to kill a guard of the party of King's Landing that came to visit the Bank of Braavos, and make it look like he had done a crime. Which was exactly what she did. It just so happened that one of the guards had been a man on her list. And as Lovely Lilly she had let herself be pulled into Dunsen's lap and lured him into an alley with the promise of sex. It had been Dunsen who had stolen Gendry's bull helm. The kindly man of course always found out and would tell her it was not the guild's way, and then he would make it seem as if she was punished by blinding her, or making her deaf, and yet give her another assignment nonetheless. If she reflected back on it, it was as if the kindly man had not really cared that she strayed, but instead had rewarded her with a new test. Perhaps she was too valuable for them, so the kindly man overlooked her personal murders. Arya wondered whethered they had always intended her to send her to her present target.

Arya knew that Gendry had been scared the day before, because he did not understand death the way she did. How could he? He was a follower of the Lord of Light. _That_ religion made her shudder. She thought it might be the most horrid there was, especially because it was all too real and opposed that of the Many Faced God. She had seen a dead knight rise back to life. Even if Ser Beric Dondarrion had been a man with noble intentions, his dead-but-living state was plain unnatural. She had seen a burning once, outside Braavos, when she traveled to a feast where Izembaro's mummers were asked to perform. It had made her angry how the priests and followers reveled in the pain and death throws of someone burning alive. There was nothing merciful about it. _The night is dark and full of terrors_. Those were part of Thoros' prayers and something she heard Gendry murmur to himself often. The faith of R'hllor was a faith of fear, Arya found.

Gendry jerked as if startled and opened his eyes. She felt like drowning in those dark blue eyes of his sometimes. She smiled at him when she saw realization appear in them and traced her finger along his forehead. "You're getting worry lines, my captain." They gazed in each other's eyes in silence, before she said, "I used to love watching you work in your forge, hammering all your frustrations away, in Harrenhall. You were all sweaty and with soot clinging to your body. I don't think there was ever a time that I didn't think of you as strong and handsome." She giggled, "And a stubborn stupid bull who only seemed interested in polishing your helmet and hitting metal, as well as too noisy to escape without someone hearing it." He grinned at her in that way his dimples appeared. "You are the most handsome man I know, Gendry, both inside and outside. I scared you though, yesterday, didn't I?"

His face turned serious and he looked away. She ached to make him look at her, to face her. She needed him not to be scared of her. "Yes," he sighed finally. He propped himself up on one elbow. "Why did you kill him, Arya?" He made an effort to make it sound neutral, though she felt the accusation hidden underneath like a viper in the grass.

"You know it has to do with the Guild, Gendry." She had to tell him in a way he could understand, and if she did, she could not beat around the bush. "Death is a law of nature and whether it is an answer to someone's prayer with a sacrifice in return, it always needs to be done with mercy." She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, with only her back and shoulders exposed to the air. "Do you remember how I tried to kill the Hound after he survived his trial by combat with Ser Beric?" When he nodded, she said, "It was savage, and unacceptable. I cannot recall it myself without shame. I did not understand then why Ser Beric allowed Sandor Clegane to live. But now you find it hard to understand why I gave Darkstar death like a gift." She frowned and saw Darkstar's cold, empty eyes before her again. "He was already dead inside, Gendry. Perhaps he already was on the day he was born, I don't know. I just helped him on his way. And there is never any need to be cruel about it."

He frowned and she could see the cogs in his brain turning as it was plain in the face he made when he needed to think deeply about something. He sat and she could not help licking her lips as she admired the muscles on his chest, the dark sprinkled hair and his taut stomach and the hairy trail disappearing underneath the blanket and his bedroll. "You make it sound so kind, empathic almost. My gut shrinks when I think of treating death as a gift. It scares me more than your fury in which you aimed to slash the Hound up. And yet I cannot find fault in you reasoning." He turned his blue eyes on her and they seemed to answer her own instinctive responses to him. "I also remember the day when I shouldered you so you could give a man rotting away in a cage water and how Anguy put an arrow in him to end his misery." He licked his lips as his eyes trailed her neck, her back and the dip between her breasts hidden by her blanket. "Thank you for trying to explain it to me." He reached out with his hand for her face and caressed her with his coarse hand. Then he leaned over and kissed her lips and that kiss tasted like a silent promise between them for the moment they would have privacy.

Arya reached for the red dress and pulled it over her head as she sat up. She found it was actually way more fitting wear in the heat of canyons and warm red rocks. She crawled out of her roll and pulled her pants on, over one shin first, then the other, to finally pull until they were past her knees. She had to hoist the skirt in order to tug and jump a few times to have the breeches hug her hips.

"Lord of Light, Arya!" she heard Gendry curse.

She turned and smiled wicked when she noticed he had his jaw open, looking parched, as well as the lust glowing in his eyes that were certainly not looking into hers. She realized her efforts to dress somewhat discreetly had failed utterly. She went down on her knees and planted a kiss on his lips, but pulled back in time before it could linger, to sit down on her bedroll and put on her boots. She picked up her sword belt and fastened it around her hips. "I have to speak with Edric for a moment. I still owe him an answer."

She strode towards the other campfire where she knew she would find Edric. She was startled to find him only half dressed. It was the first time she had seen him in his bare chest. His was different than Gendry's - longer, leaner and silky smooth, except for the light trail right above the laces of his low hung breeches. Still, she blinked, because he definitely was handsome enough to make her stomach flip at the sight of him. "Lord Edric, can we talk in private for a moment?" She tried to look away, so he could not see her blush at this unexpected sight.

"Of course, princess Arya," he said. His voice was not the deep, hoarseness that rumbled around in Gendry's chest. It sounded more like the caressing, warm desert breeze of Dorne. He grabbed his white cotton shirt, pulled it over his head and she could see it hug his chest.

 _Why the seven hells am I suddenly noticing these things about him now?_ She turned around and looked at her feet, feeling shy all of a sudden.

"Ready, your Highness," he said smiling and held out his arm.

She took it, but was for the first time truly aware of touching him as he led her to the periphery of the camp, towards the shadow of a tree with thin, long spikes on the stem and little, short, leathery leaves for canopy. He lowered his arm, but stood close to her, so that she was forced to look up at him. And the gods be damned if she could not help notice his own personal masculine smell. While Gendry's was strong and musky, Edric's was more subtle, but pleasant nonetheless and rather intoxicating over time. She had to gasp and take a step back away from him. He smiled friendly at her. He did not have Gendry's cute dimples, and his jaw was not as robust. But he had a cleft in his chin and fine creases around his lips that appeared when he smiled. She finally gathered her courage to look in his near violet eyes, and found herself wondering what they would look like if they contained lust as Gendry's had right before she left him. Edric's eyes started to dilate in response to, she was certain, her total failure in hiding her first time response to Edric's own masculinity. But she brought Gendry's look of lust to the fore of her mind and broke away from the spell. Still, Edric's eyes seemed to gleam with a hint of amusement and curiosity.

"Lord Dayne, when we were at Starfall you asked me a question and for me to take my time in considering it before answering."

"Yes?" He took a step closer again, and his voice had deepened.

By the old gods, when had Edric grown into a man all of a sudden right under her nose? _It must be the heat of this part of Westeros rattling my brain._ She licked her lips as she could not take one more step back without being pricked by the tree's spikes. "I must disappoint you. I-I cannot be your wife." There she said it, but when she looked up to gauge his reaction to her rejection, he seemed not in the slightest perturbed, and even took her hand and stroked it gently with his thumb. She stood frozen, but it seemed discourteous to retract hers from his touch.

"I know." He stared into her eyes. "I can see that I stand in Ser Gendry's shadow. You share something I am not part of." He took a step closer and they were touching toes now. "But Gendry is bound to a certain vow, and I am not. And even if he were able to bend that vow somehow, our dragon queen has brought with her other laws that would not make it impossible for a man to have two wives or a woman to have two husbands."

She did pull away her hand this time. Still, she gaped up at him. "You are not jealous?"

He laughed and finally allowed her breathing space. "No, of course not. You forget I'm Dornish. And we have a long voyage ahead of us before we reach Winterfell."

"You intend to travel all the way back North, after you just got home?" she asked incredulous.

"I swore fealty to you in Braavos, princess, and I owe you much for what you did for my aunt. I am secure that if I were to die, Starfall's line is secure. She is my heir and her natural child after her. I will send most of my host back in haste to catch up with Allyria, but me and forty of my men and forty of High Hermitage are yours, My Lady. I wish I could bring my thousand, but they are needed here to repell any new Oakheart attacks. Still, I am to bring Dawn to the North and help a Stark acquire their seat again." It sounded wonderful. They would nearly be a hundred and having the Sword of the Morning at her side could not hurt. But Gendry would not like it, not one bit. He was not one to share. "I will not stand in Gendry's way, nor intend to come between you," Edric said as if to reassure her. "But neither of us can foretell what may befall us. So, my offer remains." She looked away from him and wistfully at the camp close by, her eyes searching for Gendry. "I think I will speak with him now."

"You're not…"

He laughed. "No fear, I will tell him you said _no_."

She sighed in relief, both for his assurance to not disturb Gendry with his Dornish ideas as well as for him striding back to the camp himself so she could be alone with her thoughts and regain her composure. When she was a child the stories of Nymeria were her favorite ones, because she had been a ruler and queen in her own right, a warrior queen. She had not paid much attention to the other tales back then, but she remembered now that Nymeria had three husbands at one time, one of them at least a Dayne. She was just not sure whether Nymeria had married the next after the first died or shared her bed with three husbands simultaneously. Sansa was the one to know such things. She had always been more interested in songs and stories about love.

Arya never truly had been against marriage for herself. Even as a child she noticed that Joffrey was handsome and she had been miffed about being paired with his fat brother Tommen at the feast in King Robert's honor at Winterfell – that was before she knew Joffrey was an evil boy. But she never believed herself to be pretty enough, certainly not in comparison to Sansa. She did not even believe she was loved by her family, except for Jon and later at King's Landing by her father. It was only natural she had dismissed the notion of someone ever loving her and she certainly did not want to be married off to a lord or prince for the usual reasons amongst the highborn. She was only starting to trust and getting used to the idea that a man as handsome as Gendry and as kind as him claimed to love her; that a man she loved could love her back. She thought of him as hers and herself as his, regardless of Night Watch vows, her mission, them being unwed and them being of different status. She felt like her heart would burst from the love sometimes, when he showed her how much he cared without reserve, in bed and any other circumstance. And she had even caught herself wondering what a baby of his would look like when she was trapped with Lady Allyria in the tower and Edric's aunt had been sowing baby clothes. It seemed impossible she could ever love someone else, beside him.

It had flattered her when Edric proposed to her, but it had meant little other than that, until today and she found herself involuntarily attracted to him. It was not love of course, but even the attraction took her by surprise. She had not been prepared for that at all. And her unexpected fascination had made a mess of her rejection. Where she had expected to give pain, she had unwillingly given him some kind of hope. So, where she had supposed herself unlovable but a few weeks ago, she now found herself in a situation where two completely different men avowed to loving her, one even willing to share.

Arya finally had gathered enough composure to dare face people again, but not without wondering whether a third man would pop out from behind a rock to proclaim his love to her. Just then Gendry trotted her way on Black. He was smiling and she could see from the bend of his shoulders that he felt very much relaxed. All was right with the world. _Yes, him and me,_ she thought as she watched him.

He stopped beside her. "We're not leaving before late afternoon for the Prince's pass, when the sun is low enough not to scorch us anymore, so we have all day for ourselves." He extended his hand to take hers. "M'lady."

She gripped his, and both their strength pulling and holding on to each other made her forget all about Edric and his queer Dornish ideas. He pulled her up and plopped her in his seat. With her back against his chest, her head close to his beating heart, the feel of his arm muscles flexing around her as he took the bridles and urged Black into a gallop, and his all too masculine scent embracing her, she smiled contently. "I love you," she whispered silently, her throat tightening and her heart about to fracture with feeling.

"Hmmm?"

She cleared her throat. "Where are you taking me?" she asked much louder.

"I was told of a rather beautiful spot with a waterfall to bathe and wash the dust off before we gather some more in the Prince's pass. You smell."

She jammed her elbow in his ribs. "So do you."

"Oomph." And yet he laughed. He leaned into her ear and his hot breath made her bursting heart beat with a quickened pace. "It will allow us some privacy."


	15. I Am Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter basically is about sex from almost the first paragraph until the last. While I prefer the saying 'less is more', this chapter is very much about the evolution of their relation into a more mature and confident stage. Chapter 8 was about the imbalance of lust versus love, where one was too hasty with the intimacy. Chapter 9 was about idealization and hurt feelings. Chapter 10 was about resolving that, a forcing your hand kind of thing. Chapter 11 is about the first initial joy. And so this chapter is more about having an exchange that builds an actual foundation for them.

The memory of that secluded lazy day at the pond with the waterfall still burned in Gendry's memory like the Dornish sun on his head. He had followed the example of the Starfall and High Hermitage men, once they left the Torrentine behind them and crossed dry canyons to reach the Prince's pass that would lead them to the Dornish Marches and out of Dorne - he wore a shawl on his head that he could wrap before his mouth. The Red Mountains were not truly a sand desert, but sometimes the warm winds blew up a sand storm in the Dornish desert, over the mountains and into the passes. And he wore sandy colored cotton as a type of cloak, rather than the black shirt, otherwise the sun cooked him in it, even the late afternoon sun. They would break up camp in the afternoon; ride out by late afternoon all through midnight to set up camp again, using blankets to create a lean-to as a protection against the morning sun. The nights indeed were far colder and sometimes near freezing temperature, so most people huddled close and rubbed against each other. Since there were plenty of female soldiers amongst them, some of that rubbing at night was more than just keeping warm.

The first time Arya crawled under his blanket and teased him with hot searing kisses, he had been nervous, and wanted to be very, very silent about it, stopping every time Arya giggled or moaned too loudly to his liking and saying, "Sssshhhh, Arya, they will hear us."

"Who cares," she whispered into his ear and licked it. "We are not the only ones here sharing blankets."

"It sounds like a brothel," he whispered back, still not daring to move too much in her. "Not like a soldier camp."

She giggled, pulling the blankets over their heads and exposing their intertwined feet to the night air. "Better like this?"

"Gods, you're hopeless," he grumbled, but as she rocked her hips underneath him he growled and buried his face in her neck and intertwined his hand in hers as they slowly rocked each other to a satisfying peak, and she could moan in his ear all she liked at her heart's content.

Still, he had been apprehensive of the disapproving looks he might get from any of their Wolf Pack, certainly the Northern ones. He feared Hugo Wull might want to do his head in with his double war axe for ruining their princess and taking her maidenhead. Not that he had taken it, but if they accused him of it, he would not deny it. The truth was worse. During the late morning breakfast though, only the Tallhart heirs frowned at him. It was not until only after a few days more that Hugo Wull took him aside, clapped him on the shoulder and held his neck in a tight grip, and Gendry ogled Hugo's waving axe before his nose.

"Stop being a southern shy boy about it," Hugo snarled. "In the Northern Mountains, the women do the choosing. They drag us by our scruffs into their furs and rue the day we fail to please them." He let go of his neck. "It's as plain as day that she picked ya and wouldn't want anyone else in her bed. Just make an honest woman of her one day."

"But I'm a brother of the Night's Watch," he squealed. "And a bastard."

"Aye, you are, but it's been war for fucking six years and plenty of young men are dead - bastards, lords, princes and kings alike. It's mostly old fuckers like me that are left, or young bastards of great houses that get legitimized to avoid extinction. Her younger brother Rickon will no doubt legitimize ya or that dragon queen. I hear she has been legitimizing plenty of people to fill the empty castles and keeps all over Westeros. Maybe she'll even give you one. And your Lord Commander is Arya's bastard brother. He'll pardon ya for anything as long as you can show up with her alive. They need every man they can get up there, even the wedded ones." Hugo shook his head in dismay. "It's a sad world we live in; when old buggers like me have to wed the young highborn girls. So, it's good to know that the young bastards are working on a new generation instead of us. And when all's said and done we might not even live to tell the tale if the Long Night comes and the Others crawl over the Wall."

Gendry thought he never must have looked as red from ear to ear as after that speech. But he understood what the man was trying to say. The world around them was changing. War had done that. The most powerful houses were near extinction. Dragons roamed the world again. Dothraki hordes rode in Westeros. A woman sat the Iron Throne and one at least had been rewarded wardenship. And then there was Arya who was a type of woman all on her own that defied description.

And Arya and he were pledged to each other. "You are mine, and I am yours," Arya had said to him that lazy afternoon at that little waterfall, as they basked in the sun, still sweating after their lovemaking. "Swear it."

"You are mine, and I am yours," he repeated and kissed her for it.

It began with a refreshing – or rather icy – swim, and then they lay down on the blankets and sleeping rolls he had brought to dry naked in the morning sun. While the near freezing water had shriveled his cock into hiding to stay as warm as possible, the sun and her lean naked body next to him soon made it stand proud and erect. But he had not expected what came after – her hand stroking his shaft - first agonizingly slow and at leisure. Then her tongue licked his tip round and round, until he bucked and begged her to take him in. But when her mouth took him in and sucked, gliding up and down his cock while her fingers massaged his balls, he could swear that there had been no blood left in his brain when she did that to him. Just enough to make his hips thrust his cock into her sucking mouth and for his hand to keep her head and mouth where it already was. The sight of her sucking his cock, the feel of her taking him in as far she could when he closed his eyes, and the smacking sounds made him groan and buck and laugh all at once. At the end, he gritted his teeth, opened his eyes and helped her to finish him by jerking his cock rapidly himself. His toe curling orgasm started like the rumbling of a volcano eruption and he thought he was going mad with ecstasy when he came in her mouth. He finally had to push her away as he shuddered and trembled with the aftershocks while she sucked and teased the last out of him. He could not think, hear or see anything for a while. All he could do was lay there with his eyes closed, feeling like he was floating, smile like a king's fool with the afterglow and drape his arm around her shoulder as she laid her head on his chest, while he caught his breath.

"You're going to get a sunburn like that." Arya's finger was tracing the planes and lines of his chest and circled the sprinkle of his chest hair into a twirl.

"Hmmm?"

"I said that you're going to get sunburned if you're going to lie like that for much longer."

He finally opened his eyes and she was smiling down on him with a proud grin. "I can't move, just yet. You just wasted me."

Her grin widened from ear to ear. "Nobody else has done that for you, yet?"

He pulled her back down to his chest and closed his eyes again. "Not like that, no."

"Oh, so you had your bells rung after all, huh? Who was it? Not your half sister I hope?"

He sighed and tugged at her to lie down while shaking his head, still smiling, still having his eyes closed. And then she punched him on the chest. "Ouch! What did you do that for?"

"Tell me!" she demanded, and laid one leg of hers over his hips. He brought his free hand from her shoulder to her thigh resting on his hips.

"I'll tell you if you lie down again." She finally nudged her head in his neck, and he stroked her thigh up to her bottom and back languidly. "Alright, but it's embarrassing really."

"Tell me," she whispered with a smile in her voice.

"Lem and Tom dragged me to a brothel once – no, not the Peach – to make a man out of me. They said I was too nervous around girls. And they told one of the whores I needed to get some good treatment."

"What did she look like?"

"Buxom. You know blonde curls, big breasts, and wide hips."

"How big?" He felt her lift her head again.

"More than a handful. I like yours better." That was a good enough reply for her to relax against him once more. "And well she took me to a room with a big mattress on the floor and we weren't the only ones, and she started to rub my cock… and… and I came too quickly, before she could put her mouth on it. So, basically she had her money for doing but a little." He felt the heat rise to his face. Arya giggled. "Hey, I told you it's embarrassing."

"I'm sorry." But he could tell from her voice she was still smiling - probably one of her wicked smiles. "You never went back there again?"

He opened his eyes and sat up. She moaned in disapproval when he let her go. He stared in front of him, at the waterfall, and the sunlight dropping in on it, so that it looked like a golden shower. Why the seven hells did she want to know all of this? He plucked at the dry grass next to the blanket. "No. She called me _Speedy_ after that whenever I passed the inn or the village, and the other whores laughed at that." He huffed, feeling somewhat irked by having to remember that. "I didn't care for it, really."

"Hey, Gendry." Her hand reached out for his. "I'm sorry. That wasn't really nice of her."

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her hand in his and furrowed his brow. "Why do you want to know this, Arya?"

She pulled at his hand and he lay down again beside her. "Because I want to know whether you were ever attracted to someone else. Whether there was or ever could have been someone else." She chewed her bottom lip and cast her eyes down. Now she was the one being embarrassed.

It finally dawned on him that she was not as different from him – possessive. He smiled at the thought. "Gods, no, Arya, you were the only one," he blurted out faster than he thought about it.

Her eyes widened with glee and surprise. "Really?"

He chuckled and lifted his head to kiss her lips. "Yeah, really, you wanton woman. You ruined me for any other woman, took my honor and my virginity. You're my first and my last." He started to tickle her and she kicked her feet and screamed and laughed until tears flowed.

They wrestled with each other for a while, until she finally got the better of him and straddled him. "You're the only one for me too," she said.

Gendry stared at her dreamily, letting Arya's words sink in, as she leaned over and started to kiss him. Before long they were in each other's arms, kissing, caressing, groping. She lay on top of him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her tongue rolling around his and her mound pressing down on his loins. He had her wrapped in his arms, one hand stroking her spine to the small of her back over the silky smooth cheeks of her ass and he groped for it to press her onto his hardening cock. He lifted his head and reached for her breast with the other hand to suckle it, until she moaned with desire and pulled at his hair. She pressed him back down and he let her, his hands on her hips, while she remained seated and she looked down at him with hooded eyelids.

Gendry had no idea what he ever had done to be in such good graces with the gods or the lord of light that Arya ended up sitting on his lap, looking as glorious as she did with the sun boring down on her, her small but delightfully, proud breasts and her lithe waist. She bent lower to lean on her arm, while she lifted her hips and reached for his cock to guide herself down on him. She gasped as she slowly slid over him and finally took all of him in. She did not move at first. He was breathing more rapidly and his heart hammered in his chest, while he wanted never to forget the wonderful feeling of her slick muscles fitting tightly all around him. Gendry massaged her hip with one hand, while stroking her belly with the other, up until his coarse hand brushed the nipple of one of her breasts. _She's a goddess_ , he thought, _my own private goddess_.

And then she started to rock her hips, slowly, forth and back, left and right, up and down, testing him and herself, how much she could embrace, how deep he could sheath himself in her, how far back she could lean without him slipping away. He watched her in mesmerization, unable to tear his eyes off of her, as her breasts pointed skywards and she swayed her head with eyes closed and half open lips. She leaned forward, leaning on her hands next to his shoulders, arching her back, her lips not far from his. He wrapped one arm around her head, lifted his head to kiss her mouth, and used his other hand to support her as she lifted her hips and came down on him again. Gendry started to follow her rhythm by thrusting his hips upwards to maximize their pleasure. It was torturous slow and straining. He had spurted his seed in her mouth not that long before, and a snail's pace was perfect for him. He wanted to allow her all the time and thrusts she needed to come. He felt her muscles of her thighs starting to clench. She placed her hands on his chest, curling her fingers in his chest hair. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open, her eyes closed, and her back arched. He looked at their joining, and as he saw the root of cock disappear into her cleft, he finally felt his own increasing urge. He began to thrust and jerk upwards harder, grabbed her hips and guided her to maximize his own pleasure. Arya moaned and yelped and cried out, "Yes!" repeatedly. He gritted his teeth and finally closed his eyes. She started to tense and clench him. Her gasps became whimpers, and she lunged for his mouth, sucking in his tongue, biting his lip and then cried out. He thought he still had a long way from his own orgasm, but it arrived more sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, when he felt her muscles convulse around him.

They lay spent and sweaty, breathing raggedly each other's breath - she sprawled on top of him still. He twirled her hair between his fingers and hoarsely asked, "I don't know what is going on you with today, but I'm really liking it." He had never known her to be this playful and free around him, not when they were children, not since the first time she told him she loved him.

She snorted a smile at him and lifted her head a little to kiss him. "There's more if you want some. You said it yourself, I'm a wanton woman."

He laughed and slapped her cheeks. "Not that I don't want some more, but I don't think I can anymore. Move, you hussy, so I can wash some of that sweat off."

Arya had shown previously to have no issues with jumping in the cold water of the pool, but he had to get in there more slowly. Carefully he dipped his toes over the edge, into the water and slid in, contracting his stomach muscles, standing on his toes and started to wash his cock before it would shrink too much. He was still smiling at himself when he replayed the conversation they had. Then he furrowed his brow. There had been one other woman before her. But it was too painful a memory and too embarrassing to ever tell her. Willow had an older sister, Jeyne Heddle. She was older than him even. It had been Willow he was fond off and he chose to guard over, because she reminded him of Arya and it soothed his aching heart.

But it had been the slightly older, tall Jeyne who looked at him dreamily. He had rebuffed her shy approaches, and yet shortly after Jaime's capture, she crawled in his bed in his cot above the landing of the forge one night. She had woken him up with kisses and strokes, not unlike Arya had once done in Braavos. He did not need to see her to know it was Jeyne. With his back still to her, he had said, "Jeyne, this is wrong. Please, go to your own bed."

"Don't you think I'm pretty enough, Gendry?" she asked, sounding unsure, while she tugged at his shoulder.

With his back still towards her, he murmured, "I like you, Jeyne, and you're very pretty, but not… not in this way for me."

"You like another girl?" she said with a pained voice.

"Aye," he whispered, scared to admit it. His throat choked with emotion, as he thought of Arya at Winterfell with her new husband. Of course, he was sure she was too young to be bedded. She was a child bride, like King Tommen who was but a child groom. Still, she would have years around her husband to grow to love him, before she did finally share his bed. It was all wrong.

"But why isn't she with you then? Doesn't she like you back?"

All those questions were painful and too close to what he feared. His heart cringed at the reminder of his inability to ever explain himself to Arya and to save her from the Hound. Arya probably had forgotten all about him, or hated him for failing her. "She was married off," he finally said. He turned around and met Jeyne's dark, brown eyes that shone bright with wanting and admiration as the moonlight lit her naked figure.

Jeyne Heddle took his hand then and laid it on her breast and she guided the other between her legs. "Then you're free, Gendry, and allow me to help you forget her." She nuzzled his nose and kissed his lips while he lay half in a stupor from shock. He did not stop her. He did not even think he needed to, because his body barely responded to her explorations. Then she had fondled his limp cock and the reaction was almost automatic, though he only became half stiff. "Maybe it will help if you close your eyes and imagine I'm her."

She had wanted him so badly that she offered to be the body of the girl in his head. Their touching and kissing had been clumsy and hesitant, but he did at some point give in to her suggestion. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Arya who was in his bed, Arya as she might grow up to be, with curves and breasts. Once he did, he started to kiss Jeyne passionately, felt her up and he developed a full erection. He lost himself in the fantasy that it was Arya who whispered his name, who sighed and giggled and whispered, "I want you, Gendry! I need you, please."

He lay in between Jeyne's legs trying to find entrance, very eager suddenly, as he whispered Arya's name.

Jeyne froze underneath him and she sobbed. He opened his eyes then and saw her tears. "No, please," she whispered, her voice in anguish. "Take my maidenhead! Don't stop. I'm sorry."

He rolled away then, not being able to complete the mummer's farce and had been disgusted with himself for even attempting it. Jeyne had started to cry for real and apologized over and over to him for ruining his fantasy. He got up and went to the forge to light the fire and hammer metal in the shape he wanted.

In the morning he left the inn for two days. "To get food for the children," he had lied to Jeyne Heddle without daring to look her in the eye. When he returned from High Heart he found her broken, raped body at the burned ruins of the inn.

He had not lied to Arya when he said there had only ever been her. But when he found Jeyne Heddle's corpse, he wished he could have given Jeyne what she wanted of him, not for himself, but for her. At least she would have had a moment of happiness before she died, even if it had been a lie. At least she would have lost her maidenhead to someone she loved, even if he did not love her back, instead of some beast of a man who raped her.

Gendry was shocked out of his painful memory when Arya plunged into the pool and the water splashed across his chest. She could swim – he could not - kicking her legs, splashing more water onto him. "Arya!" She turned around, laughed and then threw water at him. He cursed at her, more harshly than he meant to.

She stopped instantly and frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

He regretted his outburst immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so angry." He felt like crying almost. They had shared such a lovely morning and he hated it that his own haunting past had intruded on his own happiness.

She was treading water and then slowly swam up to him. When she arrived at the spot where he was standing, she stood dripping and asked, "What's wrong?" again.

"I just remembered something from my time with the Brotherhood, that's all – something unpleasant. It's not your fault."

She swung her arm around his neck and pressed her wet body against his. He hated the cold of it, but this time he was not going to berate her. She stared into his eyes with a serious expression and then pressed her lips onto his, and he let her, smiling, because he knew she wanted to make him feel better and drag him back to the present with her. He held her tight and closed his eyes. He wanted to be in the present with her too.

"You are mine, and I am yours," she said then for the first time.

He relaxed a little and repeated her words in the other order. "I am yours, yes, and you are mine."

She kissed him more urgently and he surprised himself with his own energy, but he lifted her out of the water, carrying her in his arms, back to the blankets, spread her legs, settled in between and plunged into her with a need to claim all of her for himself, a wanting that he had not allowed himself to feel, let alone give into for four years, not even at Starfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jeyne mentioned in this chapter is Jeyne Heddle, Willow's sister. She's mentioned in the books as taking care of the wounded amongst the brotherhood when Brienne is taken to LS and bleeding from the wounds Biter inflicted on her. She is not be confused with Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter and best friend of Sansa who married Ramsay Bolton and saved by Theon and sent to the Wall. The bitter irony of course is that Jeyne Heddle offers to be a body double so he can pretend to have sex with Arya, while he believes Arya is married to Ramsay Bolton, but that of course is another Jeyne, namely Jeyne Poole, who is also pretending to be a body double. So, I have two Jeyne's where both men know they are not Arya, but pretend her to be Arya.


	16. The Dark Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hold to the R+L=J theory and this chapter is about it

They had been welcomed at Kingsgrave by Lord Dagos Manwoody and remained there for two nights to learn more about the current state in the Dornish Marches. Lord Manwoody was a tall, thin man in his forties with grown sons and partly bald except for the side of his head that was rounded by a ring of black hair. His eyes were dark and he had an acquiline nose. He wore black and dark grey breeches and tunic. In some ways he reminded Arya of a Dornish version of Lord Tywin. The Marches had been of old been the battlefield between Dorne, the Reach and Stormlords, but after the Storm King conquered the Marches it served as a buffer zone with a very strong martial tradition and having formidable castles, such as House Caron of Nightsong, House Dondarrion of Blackhaven, House Selmy of Harvest Hall and House Swann of Stonehelm. Jaime, Edric, Gendry and Lord Manwoody stood together with Arya around a large table with a giant map as large as the table itself almost that depicted Westeros from Dorne as far as the Twins.

When Gendry first saw the map, he whispered into Arya's ear from behind, "That's something entirely different than the map we once used to get to Riverrun." She smiled. But when he mumbled, "Too bad lemon trees don't grow moss," she jabbed her elbow into his side, and he chuckled lowly, before touring the table with his hands on his back.

"The Prince's Pass will lead us straight to Nightsong," Edric explained, and his finger trailed the path from Kingsgrave, through the Red Mountains to Nightsong. "The Bastard of Nightsong, Rolland Storm was always loyal to Stannis. I think that is our best option."

But Lord Manwoody said, "After Dragonstone was taken by King Tommen's army under the command of Loras Tyrell, Roland Storm has never been seen again. And Nightsong as well as all the lands were given to Ser Philip Foote by King Joffrey anyway after the Battle of the Blackwater. He died in the Battle of the Marches against Aegon without issue. After the dragon queen wrestled the Iron Throne from Aegon, Nightsong was awarded to her must trusted surviving Dothraki Lord, Khal Rakharo. The grasslands, moors and plains are the closest thing in Westeros that compares to their homelands across the Narrow Sea."

"How many Dothraki are there at Nightsong, Lord Dagos?" asked Arya.

"About two thousand. The same number patrols between Horn Hill, Ashford and Harvest Hall of House Selmy."

"Four thousand Dothraki?! Then we should take another route," Gendry said with a frown. "I don't like these Dothraki. They're savages."

"That don't wear armor and die easily because of it," said Jaime. "Four thousand is not that many. Queen Daenerys came with fifteen thousand Dothraki, aside from her Companies. A little over half is what is left. And if you take down the Khal, they disperse."

"But we're not wearing any armor either," retorted Gendry. "And we're only a hundred." Gendry halted his stroll opposite of Arya, at the other side of the map and stared at her meaningfully.

"What about the Boneway Pass?" Edric asked Lord Manwoody, ignoring the squabble between Jaime and Gednry. "It gets us as far as Wyl and past Blackhaven of House Dondarrion."

Lord Dagos shook his head. "House Dondarrion died with Ser Beric. Blackhaven too has been given to a Dothraki Lord, Khal Aggo. That's another four thousand Dothraki patrlolling the Marches between Harvest Hall, Summerhall and Stonehelm. Both Khal Aggo and Khal Rakharo are loyal to Queen Daenerys, as they were her bloodriders during her first marriage with Khal Drogo and remained with her after his death. They helped her in ending the slave trade and do not pillage, unless commanded. Of the two khals, Khal Rakharo is the most interested in Westeros culture and operates the most independent from her. He even speaks our language." Dagos Manwoody tapped Stonehelm on the map with his figners. "House Swann of Stonehelm also patroll as far as Summerhall, and they have sworn to fillet any Dayne after Darkstar killed Ser Balon Swann. Nightsong would be your safest bet. After that you can either go to Ashford or Harvest Hall of House Selmy. Personally, I'd choose Ashford over Selmy, because the latter are some of the most loyal to Queen Daenerys."

"And the Reach?" Arya finally asked. She sat down in her chair, one foot resting on her leather clad knee.

"The Tyrells still maintain their power, though Highgarden has been heavily hit by Queen Daenerys' forces. Their military prowess had been diminished first by Queen Cersei's wars against Stannis, and then later against Queen Daenerys and the Ironborn. What is left struggles in maintaining rule and order with the likes of House Oakheart who seek war with us or even their own neighbours."

"The Reach is still better than those Dothraki savages," said Gendry. He stood and surveyed the large map rolled out on the table. "We turn back to Blackmont and then go here," he pointed at Horn Hill, "and then go through all of this land, through those mountains and then the Trident." He had indicated a long route past Highgarden, the Reach into the Westerlands. "Everything else leads to King's Landing."

"That's House Tarly," Jaime said as he put his finger on Horn Hill. "They jumped Lannister ship together witht he Tyrells, after my sister won her trial by combat, Kevan Lannister was dead and it became clear that my sister was behind the false testimony against Queen Maergary. Once Aegon captured Storm's End, Mace Tyrell convinced Randyll Tarly to turn sides with them. For once in almost all of history the Reach and Dorne shared the same goals. But when Queen Daenerys showed up, Tarly left the Tyrells and has not stirred from Horn Hill anymore. He's a mighty warrior, but he has become more interested in his self-preservation. He might be willing to let us through." He turned towards Arya and said, "I know it's a longer route, but Ser Gendry's idea might be to our benefit."

Arya sat pensive, her eyes surveying the map and her finger tapping her mouth in thought. She needed an army. Hundred men were a start, but not an army. House Tarly seemed tempting. Her father had always spoken highly of Lord Randyll Tarly, for he had been the only one who won a battle against King Robert in the Battle of Ashford. But something told her he would not help her, and Gendry's suggestion to sneak past the awareness of the dragon queen did not sit well with her. As a child, hiding her identity had served her well in order to survive, but it also prevented her from ever getting back home and got her captured all the time. She had started out in Braavos with a bold plan to use her identity openly, and it had paid off so far. She wanted to continue in the same vein. There was no way around it. Arya knew she would be unable to avoid a confrontation with the dragon queen or any of her men.

She noticed Edric, Gendry, Jaime and Lord Manwoody looking at her expectantly. "I choose Nightsong."

Gendry opened his mouth, but Lord Manwoody spoke before him. Before he had been rather dismissive of her and deferred mostly to Lord Edric. But he had narrowed his eyes at her when she had made her choice and his thin lips smiled. "If you wish it, I could send troops into the Marches to lure the Dothraki back into the Prince's Pass. The Red Mountains are a desolate place. There are no farmers to be slaughtered or pillaged." His smile broadened and he licked his lips in anticipation. "I have a two thousand men, and they would not mind killing double of that here in the Pass for their crimes at Sunspear. With the distraction, you might get around Nightsong unseen."

She met Dagos' eyes and realized he had been waiting for an excuse or opportunity to do some damage with the Dothraki. Lord Manwoody probably had done it before with a few scouts of his. This meant the Dothraki were on the lookout for crowned skulls on black, or anybody else coming from the South. "I thank you, Lord Manwoody," she said. His smile widened. "But I would appreciate such a strategy, after Khal Rakharo grants us safe passage or escort." Her gaze shifted towards Gendry who stared at her in shock."We ride to the Dothraki stronghold. We won't be able to sneak around. If I have to choose between being taken prisoner or announce myself as a petitioner, I prefer the latter. And I trust a Dothraki lord who has been known to be loyal over a turncoat like Tarly. Once we leave Nightsong, Lord Manwoody, I think your timing for the plan you offerend would be ideal."

Lord Manwoody chuckled and nodded. He realized she had not taken his bait to be his possible sacrifice. Jaime's face was unreadable, but he said, "A very bold plan, Your Highness. You take after your brother Robb, I see, and he had my father shaking in his boots and resort to bribes in order to stop him."

Edric made no comment, but he nodded in the manner that betrayed he would follow her decisions without second guessing her. Only Gendry glared at her and his jaw was stern, but at least he refrained from arguing with her in front of the other men.

"I pledge fifty of my men to your cause, Princess Arya," said Lord Manwoody.

"Another great offer, Lord Manwoody, but perhaps I can ask for horses so all hundred of us have one?" She feared a third of her party riding as crowned skulls on black would not sit well with the Dothraki at all. And she needed horses. "I've heard the Dothraki lords only have respect for riders, not foot soldiers."

Dagos Manwoody sighed, but then extended his hand to shake on it with her. "Horses then, Princess Arya, and ten of my best men."

She smiled at the Lord of Kingsgrave and shook his hand, firmy. "We leave tomorrow," she said and dismissed everyone.

Only Gendry remained behind. "This is crazy, Arya!" he said. His voice sounded both angry and fearful at the same time. "Jaime said my plan was not so bad. And I'm not letting you march to your death by the hands of those barbarians."

She was too tired and unwilling to discuss it. "We're doing it my way, Gendry."

"By the Lord of Light, woman!" he faced her, taking two long strides, grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Don't be so stubborn. This Rakharo will just hand you over to the queen," he shouted at her.

"Let go of me, and don't you dare talk to me in that way," she hissed back and saw her words hit him like a whip in the face. Gendry released his hold on her, but his anger flared his face flush, and he looked as if about to hit something. She grabbed him and pressed her lips hard on his mouth, with no other effect than him pushing her away and turning his head to the side. "I know you are right. He will deliver me to Queen Daenerys, but it'll work out fine, Gendry," she said in a softer tone.

Gendry turned away from her, kicked a chair with his boot, hit the map and sent it flying in the air, before walking out without saying another word, and avoided her the rest of the evening.

Her own anger subsided quickly though. She understood his anger was born out of concern for her safety, and she was unwilling to leave the argument between them unresolved. When Kingsgrave was huddled in sleep and dark, except for the sentries strolling the battlements and walls, she stole out of her room in her white, woolen shift with a candle and tip toed on her bare feet to Gendry's cell at the end of the corridor. It was a moonless night, so she kept a hand in front of the flame so her eyes would remain accustomed to night vision. She opened his door, and could barely discern his shadow of his massive back in his bed. She padded closer, and silently put the beeswax candle on the washing stand close by the single bed. She could see from the rise and fall of his breathing that Gendry was awake.

Before she could grab the corner of his blanket, he said, "Return back to your room, Arya." She ignored his request, lifted the shift over her head and crawled in naked beside him, putting an arm around him and hugged him with her smaller body. "Don't," he said with annoyance, and his arms and back were stiff.

She closed her eyes and pushed her forehead into his back, while her hand squeezed his shoulder. "Can't we talk, Gendry?"

"What's there to talk about," he mumbled. "You've already made up your mind anyway. What do you have me as captain for? You don't listen to my council, and just do the exact opposite. I'm not even your best fighter. Jaime, Brienne, Asher and Edric are far better skilled in their sword dance."

"You are mine, and I am yours," she whispered, stroking the rounding of his shoulder to mullify his tenseness and kissed the back of his neck.

He snorted. "I'm just your captain because I share your blankets." She could hear the hurt simmer through his voice.

"Because you're strong," she said while squeezing his biceps. "Because people listen to you when you tell them to shut up for me. I don't have your booming voice." She pressed her lips softly and long against his shoulder, sneaking her lithe body closer to him.

"But you don't listen to me," he said spiteful.

"Because you go berserk and kill five warriors with your hammer if I'm under direct threat." She nuzzled his neck and slipped her hand from his arm to his chest, across his ripped stomach and down to his cock. She was not surprised to discover he had already developed an erection, and when she carressed it with a finger, it responded involuntarily. She folded her hand around the shaft and tenderly and slowly moved her hand up and down so his skin rubbed across the ridge of the tip. "Because you are the only one that I trust to do what needs to be done, even if you don't like it." She skidded her tongue in the base of his neck.

But he gripped her moving hand and pried it loose. He held her hand, not in a loving way, but to prevent it from doing anything else. "So, what I hear is I'm your captain because of my muscles, my booming voice, and my foolishness to do as you tell me and make others do it too. It sure isn't for my brain from the sound of it. I'm not that dumb, Arya. Don't play me like that. Don't treat me like I'm your lapdog, or any dog for that matter."

She clenched her teeth in frustration of his unwillingness to relax. It felt like a rejection. But she also was genuinely surprised that he believed she thought so little of him. "Is that what you believe, Gendry – that I think you're dumb?"

He refrained from answering that question. He only sort of voiced a non-committal, "Hmmm."

Arya sat up and made him face her by pushing his upper shoulder down. She studied his face and his blue, blue eyes. They crackled with anger as well as hurt. She reached for his cheek and stroked the dark stubble of a day old. "I honestly don't think that, Gendry. For one, you have great instincts. Secondly, it takes intelligence to see through disguises and get right to the heart of the matter. You were the only one who deduced I was a girl when we were on King's Road with Yoren. You predicted that little would change in Harrenhall with Roose Bolton. You were the sole one who realized why I killed Darkstar."

He stared back at her, and some of the anger and hurt seemed to lift. "That's true." He finally rolled onto his back.

She smiled and stroked a lock of hair away from his eyes. "It's just that you're not the best strategist. Leave the planning to me." He rolled his eyes. "Your plan would just be us two, hiding and getting caught anyway and be powerless. We tried that in the Riverlands. It never worked out." He lifted her hand that he had gripped before and played with her fingers, sullenly. "But your insights keep me on my toes. I couldn't do it without your brain." She knocked him on his temples.

"Ouch!" He rubbed his head. He remained silent for a long while, not looking at her, but staring at her fingers. Then his blue eyes shot up at her face, and all anger and hurt had lifted. "Alright, but let's just be cautious," he said. "Can we do that? There's no reason we should be rash. We can scout the area for ourselves first and see whether we can go north without having to risk your life over it."

She nodded, and smiled. "Yes, that sounds sensible." She leaned over him and inched her lips closer to him. He closed his eyes and welcomed her kiss.

It started with lips touching for only a moment, longer and longer with every repeat, until she felt his hand wrap around her head and his lips open to hers. It was his tongue that rolled into her mouth, and his body that pressed her down onto the bed. Her arms took him in an embrace and her hands pulled through his hair, while he cupped the cheeck of her ass with one hand and his other hand stroked her thigh and lifted her leg. He slid into her - and she was all slick and ready for him - and he rocked his hips slowly, but without thrusting fully into her. All he used was the head of his cock that teased in and out of her entrance with rhythmic control. The only sound was the smacking of their endless kiss, the soft creaking of the bed and the slick sound of his entering and leaving her. Surprisingly, her need to have all of him inside of her, but his refusal to do so, sent her to the edge in huge jumps she would not have ever believed possible before. She panted heavier and more rapidly. And yet, once she was high at the ridge of the plummet of her impending orgasm, the same teasing made her inch closer more slowly and with an awareness she had not yet experienced before. It was the most delicious torture she had ever known, and she wanted it to last as long as possible. Her eyes rolled away and she did not even need to tighten her body as if fighting to reach the point of ecstasy. It rose from the deepest depths of her glands, warm, almost deceptively innocent, but all engulfing powerful in a way she had not known before, and the sole sound that escaped her was a profound sigh, until finally her body started to convulse long after her orgasm had begun. She did not know where or when she was, but it felt warm, and gloriously comforting. Gendry's croaked moan as their lips were still sliding wet around each other was the sole external sensation she was aware of. She smiled as he finally settled completely into her with slowing strokes, and embraced his hips with both her legs. And still they kissed, while the flow of her orgasm ebbed back and forth like a swing. The kiss lasted until after that, with both of them smiling, as they rolled on their sides. It never really ended, because it found a renewed passion and eagerness again. Though it had never been that intensely satisfying before, she had more than energy to spare for another round of this bliss.

Arya woke when the sun had risen for hours already, in his arms, their toes and feet intertwined. She was not sure when she had dozed off exactly, but she felt loved and relaxed. She settled closer again, closed her eyes and smiled as she heard the slow beating of his heart against her head. The movement of his arm and his hand to pull her closer betrayed he was awake as well. When she moved her shoulders to settle even closer, he chuckled and carressed her feet lovingly with his feet.

"I'm glad you didn't listen to me last night and stayed," he murmured. She sighed happily in response and his hand went up to stroke her head. "Sleep some more, sweet Arya. It will be a few hours yet, before we leave."

"I love you, Gendry," she finally whispered, with her eyes closed, before falling asleep again.

"I love you too."

They set out in the late afternoon to continue their journey through the Prince's pass, until Edric halted their journey not long after they rode out, at sunset. Arya could see the base of a tower that had been almost totally torn down and eight cairns. Obviously a battle had been fought here, but it seemed a rather insignificant desolate place. Arya jumped of her horse and followed him, when she saw him kneel in prayer. He pulled the greatsword Dawn out of its scabbard on his back, and laid it on the ground as if he was asking for a blessing. The Starfall and Hermitage men and women behind her had followed Edric's example - the riders lowered themselves from their horses and together with the foot soldiers sat on one knee, heads bowed. Her Wolf Pack were the only ones left standing and looked at those around them with questions in their eyes.

"Who lies buried here?" she asked in a low whisper, and still it seemed like thunder against the silence.

Edric rose and turned to her with sad eyes. This place had clearly moved him to the core. She could see his hand tremble. "Many, many great people were buried here by your father, Princess Arya."

"My father?"

"These cairns are what is left of the Tower of Joy, where Rhaegar hid your aunt Lyanna Stark guarded by three Kingsguard - my uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne, but also Ser Oswald Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower himself. Your father found her here along with his six companions. They fought and only two men were left standing, Lord Eddard Stark and his friend Howland Reed. They buried the dead with the stones of the tower and returned Dawn to Starfall to tell about it."

Arya turned and looked at the graves in stunned silence. Her father had always been reluctant to talk about Lyanna and the related events, not to mother, not to her brothers, not her sister and herself. All she knew was that he had fought against the famous Ser Arthur Dayne at the end of the war, had won and brought the knight's sword back to Starfall. It seemed an almost unremarkble, insignificant place for such a fight, let alone for her aunt to have died here. She tried to think if her father ever mentioned the names of his companions. She knew Howland Reed was Lord of all Crannogmen and sworn to the Starks and that House Fenn was sworn to the Reeds, but she did not know he had been a friend of her father. She turned around, brought her hand in front of her mouth in shock and stared into the distant past. Gendry took a step towards her, but she shook her head at him.

Rowland Fenn tore himself loose from the puzzled Wolf Pack and approached her. "I can tell you who else lies here, princess." She nodded, her hand still before her mouth. "Lord William Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martin Cassel, Theo Wull and Ser Mark Ryswell."

The names floated into her mind like ghosts. There was Barbrey Dustin's husband, and Jory's father. She looked at Asher Forrester, Brandon Bole, Duncan Tuttle and No Nose Ned, the Tallhart brothers and Larence Hornwood. They were men somehow related or beholden to House Glover. Then she looked at Hugo Wull and his remaining cousin. One of theirs lay buried here too. _How many Wulls was that already in the Red Mountains? One at this Tower of Joy and two on the way to High Hermitage._ _At least their final resting place are mountains, just not the white, snowy ones of the far North, but the red, hot ones as south as south goes._ She finally saw her men and woman staring at her, clearly unsure what to make of this place and what to do. They were looking at her to be their example. She pivoted around and went down on one knee and whispered, "The North remembers." No doubt her Wolf Pack followed her example.

Later, she joined them at the campfire and told them all the names, and almost all of them looked stricken. Hugo Wull grabbed his cousin by the neck and immediately stalked off into the dark to walk the perimeter of the eight cairns. Asher thanked her and promised that he would tell Lord Glover what he had seen here. Nobody knew which cairn held which fallen man, but Arthur Dayne was infamous and it meant that Lord Eddard Stark had held all those slain in the battle for Lyanna in equal regard as that famous knight. Jaime too had a pained and haunted look in his eyes and wandered off with Brienne towards the cairns.

That was when she noticed Gendry looking quite forlorn beside her. None of these names meant anything to him, except perhaps that of Arthur Dayne. He had no ties to them whatsoever. It had been his father's bride-to-be who had been a prisoner here, but she knew his father was just a name for him as well. He started to get up, but she grabbed his hand. She had promised him that she would help him understand, and if he was to be a part of her life, then she ought to somehow include him. He smiled a little at her, when she tugged his hand to sit down again, and eventually gave in to her silent request. He remained with her all through the night, when all others had left for their blankets and rolls, except for Rowland Fenn.

"Can you see what occurred here, Rowland?" she asked. "Or did you know the names from Lord Reed?"

"Both," said Rowland. "The events here linger at this place and cling to the cairns, because their story has been left untold."

"Can you see anything about Lyanna?" her voice had dropped to that of a whisper.

"Barely, only through the eyes of the others. Lyanna's bones are at Winterfell."

Jaime stepped into their little circle then. "What I do not understand was why Hightower, Arthur and Whent stayed here and fought Lord Stark? Rhaegar was already dead, so was the Mad King. They were Kingsguard. Their place was with the crown prince at Dragonstone, not Lyanna." He sounded bitter. "Even if they did not know before Lord Stark's arrival, they would have left this place immediately once they did."

It had never occurred to Arya before that the Kingsguard defended a place that held no king and no queen. But now that he had spelled it out, it made her wonder too. Rowland first rested his eyes upon Jaime and then slowly shifted his gaze upon her. He said, "Because the crown prince was not at Dragonstone."

Jaime snorted at that as if Rowland was speaking nonsense, but then he fell silent and his eyes grew wide. "Lyanna had a son." Arya shook her head. She had never heard her father tell anything about his sister having a son. Nor was there a baby buried with her in Winterfell crypts. Jaime started to chuckle and then laughed. "By the seven gods, Lord Stark truly was a man of honor after all."

Arya scowled at that. "Yes, Kingslayer, he was."

He shook his head. "You don't get it, do you, princess? Your bastard brother isn't your brother."

"Shut up!" she hissed back. "You don't know what you're saying. Of course Jon is my brother. My father wouldn't lie…" And then she fell silent. "He lied." What had it been what Darkstar had said? He had been a boy when Lord Stark rode past High Hermitage to return the greatsword Dawn. Her father had followed the same route she had done, in the opposite direction. _He said something about me only having three brothers_. _Did he mean...?_

"Jon's your cousin, your aunt's son."

"But she died, because Rhaegar raped her," she whispered stricken. None of it made any sense. She stood and paced back and forth. "No, this can't be true. My father would have told my mother, would never have lied about fathering a child with another woman." Gendry reached for her hand when she stopped pacing. She took it absent mindedly.

"A Targaryen crown prince when your best friend the King hated all what was Targaryen and pardoned the Mountain for murdering Elia and her children sounds exactly the one thing Lord Stark would have lied about." Jaime smirked. "He was always valiant about protecting children. It got him killed when he confronted my sister about Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen."

Arya wanted to hit him. It was as if Gendry knew she wanted to, because his grip on her hand tightened. She looked away from Jaime and narrowed her eyes at Rowland. "You know more of this, don't you?"

"Aye, I learned about it on the Isle of Faces." He eyed her strangely, as if unsure to reveal all he knew. "I was one of the first visitors allowed there since many, many years, in order to be trained and learn more about what needed to be done to protect us from the coming of the Long Night. The Neck has not been frozen since thousands of years, princess, not since the Others last roamed the North. I saw past events through the weirwoods on the Isle. One of them was Rhaegar seeking council there after the birth of Aegon. He sought their council for the same reasons as I did. He knew about a legend called the Song of Ice and Fire of the Prince that was Promised to save Westeros from doom, and he thought it was Aegon, but also that there needed to be a third head of the dragon. Elia however would not survive a third pregnancy. He learned on the Isle the blood of Ice was needed and he was already smitten with a daughter of the Lords of Ice – Lyanna, who was one of Lady Whent's ladies in waiting."

He stopped talking and Arya felt a shiver run across her spine. She glanced at Gendry and he stared at Rowland as if under a spell. Jaime too looked gobsmacked. But very slowly he shifted his green eyes towards her, to the sword hanging from her swordbelt. He looked up and into her eyes. They thought the same thing, she knew – _Ice_. Some of the bitterness and haunted look about him seemed to lift.

Arya licked her lips. "So, he kidnapped her to force a third child on her."

Rowland's voice was a whisper, but aside from the crackling of the flames it sounded as clear as thunder in the sky to her. "They were wed on the Isle, princess, with two Kingsguard as witnesses, before the Old Gods. I saw it through the eyes of the weirwood, princess. She loved him."

All the pieces started to tumble down in her head and fell in place. _Of course!_ Her father had called his sister willful and told her she reminded him of Lyanna. Would she herself wed a man she loved or one who kidnapped her? She knew she would rather die or kill the man before letting anyone force her to marry against her will. It fit with her father's silence whenever someone mentioned the tale of Lyanna being kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar. He had never denied the popular version in the North, but he had never corroborated it. "My father knew," she whispered. "In the end he knew the truth of it."

"Jon Snow isn't a bastard," said Jaime. "He's a legitimate Targaryan. He truly is the crown prince, if Aegon is only a Blackfyre. I can see why Arthur Dayne and Whent would have remained and protect Lyanna and her son, even if he had been a bastard. They always were Rhaegar's friends, and I was excluded from that inner circle; so was Selmy. Their loyalty would have been with Rhaegar's wishes, dead or alive. But Hightower is a different matter. He would never stray from his vows and to him it meant to guard the king or his issue."

Finally, Gendry spoke up. "So, is Jon this Prince that was Promised then?"

"That I don't know," said Rowland. "Rhaegar and Lyanna believed their child would be crucial to the Song of Ice and Fire, their destiny, and Rhaegar said there needed to be three – a three headed dragon."

She had forgotten all about Jon while thinking on Lyanna and her marrying the Targaryan crown prince. But they brought him to her present mind again, and once again she was reminded of Gendry's ability to cut to the heart of the matter. Jon never knew who his mother had been. Father had never told him. She remembered how Edric once told her that he was Jon's milk brother and believed his nurse Wylla to be Jon's mother. She had promised herself to tell Jon if she ever saw him again. But if his mother was Lyanna and his father Rhaegar Targaryan and he the crown prince, he was a possible rival to the Iron Throne; then Edric was wrong about Wylla, and probably about her father and Ashara too, she thought with some satisfaction.

"This stays between us," she said suddenly. "My father died with the secret. If he had wanted to tell it, he would have. He didn't even tell my mother. He let her believe that Jon was his illegitimate son and she despised Jon for it all her life. Swear to me you don't speak of this to anyone, certainly not the dragon queen if we ever happen to meet her, and I doubt we'll be able to avoid meeting her. Nobody can know until Jon hears of it himself by either of us four. Swear it on third of Ice." She unsheathed Widow's Wail and made them all kneel and vow to silence, and they did so willingly.

They moved to go to bed, but Jaime approached her. "I think I know now why the gods granted me to live beyond my kinslaying. But I must warn you. Perhaps I'm not for this world long anymore. The dragon queen will have my head if she ever catches me. She won't be keen on any of us, but she can't hold the rebellion against either you or Gendry, for you were not born yet. But I…I struck her father down." His eyes looked sad. "A part of me had hoped to live long enough so that one day I could go to the Sapphire Isle and ask Brienne's father for her hand."

Arya widened her eyes. "I could relieve you of your duty to my person and send both of you there if that is what you wish."

But Jaime shook his head. "No matter, all our roads lead to King's Landing, for we need to find Tobho Mott and have him reforge Ice or teach Gendry how to do it. And I must play my part so that you can stay there long enough to do it right under her nose."

And with that he turned and left her standing all by herself, until Gendry appeared behind her and asked her what Jaime had wanted from her. She turned and kissed him. "Nothing of importance now."

Gendry stared for a moment longer at Jaime stalking off to his bedroll, his forehead in a deep frown. He brought his fingers to his mouth and said, "Arya?" as he turned to follow her.

She looked up at him, smiling, "Yes?"

For a moment he stared at her in hesitance, then he waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing, really. Forget about it." He smiled at her and put his arm around her waist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Darkstar's riddles suggested he knew two secrets:  
> R+L=J and N+A=Allyria. Though Gendry has heard Jaime mention the last, Arya until now has not yet realized that.


	17. Blood of My Blood

Gendry's heart hammered in his throat as they lay flat in the high grass looking out from a hill into the Marches. In the far distance, north of them, they could see a large sprawled out castle with high looming watchtowers. It was certainly as large as Harrenhall. The many watchtowers were called the Singing Towers, Edric had explained, because they had a bell system in each tower to sound the alarm, a different bell for a different threat or friend. There was no way in sevens hell they could ever get past that castle unseen. More to the east they could see at least several hundred horses with Dothraki riding. There were more in Nightsong, the scout had said. Though the Dothraki seemed to prefer to set up tents in and around the castle and live in those than in the actual rooms.

He looked at Arya beside him also spying the area, along with Edric and Hugo Wull. Gendry scowled. She was right again. Once he learned about her intention to just knock on Nightsong's doors and require guest right with the Dothraki lord Rahkaro they had a fight over it. That she could even contemplate surrendering herself in the hands of a bunch of barbarians was the most foolhardy plan of hers yet. It was as if with every new plan, hers became more bolder every time. And that she could even consider everything would be well if this khal would just hand her over to the dragon queen was beyond him. It had not surprised him that she came to him at Kingsgrave in the night. He had expected it, and it only served to work himself up about it beforehand. Her actions to seduce him only confirmed his belief she only saw true worth in him as a lover. It hurt that she made him feel like she thought he had no mind of his own or was simple minded. He could not read. He could not swim. Cyvasse gave him headaches. And he sucked at coming up with schemes like she did. Of course, it was hardly surprising that his cock was too damn disloyal to his intention not to be played by her. But he had shown some character strength. He was rather proud of that moment, as well as having her agree to a compromise. But her genuine surprise and her assurance that she thought he was smart nonetheless had been what had truly softened him.

But she was right about Nightsong. She was always right about these things. There was no way they could ever get past Nightsong unseen. And if they tried, they would get captured and taken as prisoners. Though it sounded insane, the Dothraki would probably be less suspicious of them if they got up on their horses and waved at them with a smile. At least if this Rahkaro was as _peaceful_ as was claimed.

Arya looked at him and grabbed his hand. "Let's get back."

On their belly they crawled away and went down behind the hill where the horses and the rest of their company were gathered, waiting. As he was adjusting the straps of his stirrups of Black, Brienne joined him. "Remember, Ser Gendry, if things go wrong and there's to be fighting, you just look at her and imagine her to be in harm's way."

"I don't need to imagine that," he grumbled.

But he knew what Brienne implied. She had inquired with him once after their battle with the Oakhearts and Dothraki near High Hermitage how he had experienced his fight. Truth be told. He remembered little of it, except that his first and only thought had been getting to Arya as fast as possible, even before Darkstar took off with her. His heart had been thumping in his ears. Time seemed to slow down. It was as if everyone moved slowly and he could predict with precision what move they would make, while having ample time to respond accordingly. Nothing hurt him. It was only afterwards he became aware of the cut on his upper arm. Swinging the hammer and slashing with his sword was as easy as hammering metal on the anvil. And when he saw Arya being grabbed and thrown on Darkstar's horse, he saw red. Everything else beyond that was a blur.

Brienne had nodded at this, while sharpening her second sword. "You've had some training, but it takes years and years to think fast on your feet when someone swings sharp at you." She looked at him in a way as if she was sorry to have to tell him that. But he knew it was the truth. He wished he were better, but he only had months of training by a master, not years, alas. "Jaime trained you enough though to instill several moves into you for you to access them on instinct. Usually the problem with someone who has average fighting experience is that they over think it all. But you have something that is referred to as the berserker."

"What's a berserker?"

"Anger and rage are usually what gets most fighters killed. It makes them careless and simply expose themselves too easily, certainly against a far better experienced knight. But the berserker state is different. Their rage makes them focus better. Something happens to their body and they become severely deadly." She smiled at him, disfiguring her face even more. "You felt severely exhausted and empty afterwards, didn't you?" He nodded. "When you work on metal and channel your anger, have you ever ruined what you were working on?"

He shook his head. "Actually, it's usually my best work."

"Use your rage in battle then. Think of Arya being in danger, and you'll kill more people than Jaime or I can in that time." She smiled again in that way that made her look hideous. "I wonder whether your father was a berserker as well."

"I wouldn't know."

They all got on their horses, and for the first time Gendry donned his Wolf helmet. He would have cooked his brain if he had done that in the Red Mountains. Arya steered her sandy colored mare _Winter_ next to him. She still wore the red dress above her breeches, but it was tattered, dusted and torn from wear. Her skin had turned to that of copper in the Dornish sun. And he noticed for the first time, how long her hair had grown. It was well beyond her shoulders. He remembered the first sight he got of her in Braavos, when she entered his shop and revealed herself to him. In just several months she had changed from a young beautiful woman who looked at playing an adventurous princess into a jaw dropping, stunning warrior queen, though she had no such title.

She had but a small army – not thousands as Queen Nymeria - but a larger company would have come across as hostile. And yet everyone of those one hundred and ten filing up in pairs behind them was worth at least ten foot soldiers. He looked behind him and saw an amalgam of sigils, gender, faces and weapons – plenty of Dayne's falling star on purple, ten Manwoody crowned skulls on black, Wull's buckets on blue, Forrester's white ironwood, Tallhart's green sentinel trees, Liddle's pinecones, Norrey's thistles, Hornwood's moose, Fenn's water lilies, Brienne's golden suns and silver crescents. Only Jaime was not wearing any sigil – he had no kin anymore to speak of, he once said. It was a mix of swords, spears, lances and axes. But they were clearly all united behind Arya who wore no sigil, but a lance in her right hand, with a white flag on which she had stitched a wolf's head. She had made it in Kingsgrave. She used to say her talent was needlework when she was a child still, but Gendry thought he could do a better job than her with that wolf head.

And then they were on the move, riding straight for Nightsong, at a steady but slow trot pace. Gendry could hear the bells from those towers sing within half an hour and not long after hard riding Dothraki came galloping towards them.

"Don't draw that hammer," she told him when his hand was trying to reach for it and haul it out of his sling. "We're not out to provoke a hostile confrontation."

These Dothraki rode hard and looked as if they and their horses were one. There had been Dothraki amongst the Oakheart raid, but they were few and it had been dark. Seeing them surround Arya's company by daylight was a completely different matter. Arya was the best horse rider he knew, but these olive skinned warriors in horse hair breeches and bare chest looked as if they were born on it and never got off. Tension was mounting when all of their company was surrounded. The Dothraki held their bows and spears in readiness, some even their curved arakhs. If the Dothraki decided to attack, Gendry was sure they were done for. He eyed them wearily, trying to measure how many he could take on before he'd be dead. If he was lucky, maybe two.

Right at that moment, Arya nudged Winter to step slowly forward. His hand instantly went for the hammer, and he felt his blood pumping. One of the Dothraki who had been eyeing him tensioned his bow. But a Dothraki left the encircling formation and let his horse step up beside Arya. He studied her from top to toe, letting his dark eyes linger on her bosom. Gendry was seething and gritted his teeth. _Be angry_ , Brienne had said. The man who had his bow aimed at him said something in his strange, guttural language to the Dothraki next to him and the men laughed. The Dothraki captain – Gendry had no other name for him - swayed his head from left to right around Arya. His hair was braided in bells, halfway down his back. Then the captain finally studied the rest of Arya's company behind them. He said something loud enough for all the Dothraki to hear. Obviously it was something they thought funny, because they all laughed. Gendry had no idea what the man had said, though he had recognized the word, "Khaleesi".

"Come, khaleesi…Stark?" He struggled with the pronunciation of the common tongue. If this was Rakharo his knowledge of the common tongue was exaggerated. The headman bowed his head to Arya. She gave him a small nod in reply, but did not utter a word to him. Gendry's eyes finally met with the leader as he nudged Black to follow Arya up close. The man said something to his horde and laughed.

It was at least another hour before they arrived at Nightsong with their Dothraki escort. When they were close, several of the riders urged their horse into a gallop and shouted words to the women and men looking at them in the tent camp that surrounded and was put up amidst the enormous castle. The Dothraki apparently seemed in a cheerful mood, laughing and smiling and joking. He had to suppress all urges to look at those laughing and scowl at them. Arya had instructed him beforehand to ignore any provocation. Just before they halted, Arya finally met his gaze and she smiled one of those glorious smiles of hers that made his heart swell. He had done well, that smile said. The Dothraki captain must have seen it, because he said something in his strange language, involving khaleesi Stark and something _ko_. Gendry had heard that word a few times during the ride when they said something about him. But apparently the captain had not been making a joke this time. Gendry could almost swear there sounded some warmth and a little of admiration in the captain's voice.

They dismounted and the Dothraki men and women watched them with bemused curiosity. But it was apparent that both the riders and those in the tent camp were looking at him with more admiration. He was taller than them and as bulky as the captain.

"Come, khaleesi Stark," said the captain again, gesturing towards the bigger tent in the center of the camp, which was the center of Nightsong's yard. The captain made no objection when Gendry remained by Arya's side, but he said "No," when the rest of them wanted to follow. Although eventually he let Edric pass as well as Brienne.

"Valeryan," he heard some women whisper to each other. Gendry realized then that the captain must have determined Edric and Brienne had some special status in Arya's company, because of their swords. Some of the younger men amongst the Dothraki stepped up close to him or in his path to study his warhammer. But they always jumped out of his way on time before they would bump into him.

They were escorted into the large tent, and Gendry was surprised how much cooler it was in the tent, than outside. There stood khal Rakharo waiting for them. There was no way to mistake him for another. He was taller than most Dothraki, just slightly shorter than Gendry, but similar in size of his muscles. He had a large droopy black moustache and a braid of bells almost as low as his waist and a great curved arakh bound to his waist. They were nudged closer towards the khal, but the captain and two other Dothraki remained close to them. One of them gestured Gendry to take off his Wolf helmet. And when he did, it revealed his usual hairstyle when he tucked his shoulder long black hair into a low bun behind his head. Two women sitting near Rakharo's seat whispered to each other and giggled. Rakharo smiled amused and the captain and the other two men chuckled.

Rakharo went to his seat and laid his hand on one of the women's legs, stroking it relaxed. The khal appraised all four of them, saying something in his own language when he measured Brienne standing behind Arya, before he finally rested his eyes on Arya. "Welcome, khaleesi Stark," Rakharo said. "What can I do for you?" At least he had the basics of the common tongue down.

"It's an honor Khal Rakharo. I am no khaleesi however, but Princess Arya Stark. The man to my right is Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill, to my left Lord Arthur Dayne of Starfall and Sword of the Morning. The woman is Lady Brienne of Tarth of the Sapphire Island." The other woman sitting at the other side of Rakharo whispered translations into Rakharo's ears, although he seemed to understand Arya without it. Perhaps he used a translator for the nuances. "I have lived for many years in Braavos, while Queen Cersei and Tywin Lannister hunted for my brothers and sister. Now that some peace has returned to Westeros since Queen Danaerys Targaryan has retaken what is rightfully hers and my brother Rickon Stark has been found, I found it was time to return to Westeros and help _him_ reclaim his birthright. I sailed to Starfall with my company in order to do so. We have since then traveled through the Red Mountains and Lord Dayne has joined my purpose. All I ask for, khal Rakharo, is safe passage through the Marches for me and those who ride with me."

Rakharo waited until the translator had given the full account. His eyes sparkled bemused during Arya's speech. "Please sit, princess Arya and your ko." Gendry sighed. It was the first step to a more peaceful exchange. The kahl gestured at some servants who promptly set some small finger food in front of them on the ground. "I believe is sacred custom to eat and drink under roof." He waved his hand to the tent. "For protection, no? Guest right?"

"Yes."

"You have protection under roof of Nightsong," Rakharo said.

"What about the rest of my companions outside?"

He snapped his fingers to the captain - or was it a ko – that had escorted them from the grasslands of the Marches to Nightsong. When the ko left, Rakharo said, "Men and women outside protection too."

"Thank you," Arya finally said. She took a bite of the dried meat and drank some milky white fermented liquid, and then passed it to Gendry. It was horsemeat and some alcoholic beverage made out of horse milk. He realized they must have had horses aplenty if this was what they ate and drank. "I am truly grateful, as my brother and mother were murdered under guest right during a wedding."

When those present in the tent heard the translation they looked disturbed and voiced disapproval. Rakharo narrowed his eyes at Arya. "We have similar custom in Vaes Dothrak – Dothraki capital. Forbidden to draw sword. Khal Drogo killed Khal Rae Mar – means sorefoot king who did not ride and was brother of khaleesi Danaerys – with melted golden crown. You must kill these breakers of guest right, princess Arya."

After the initial threatening behaviour when Khal Rhakaro's captain rode to meet them on the Marches and the mocking name for Vyserys for not riding a horse, Gendry realized Arya had made at least the right choice by getting horses at Kingsgrave for all the men and women in their company.

"I will," said Arya. Rakharo nodded in silent approval.

Gendry spoke then. "Many already have been killed, Khal Rakharo. I helped hang some of them."

"How many?"

"Twenty? Thirty? The trees grew hanged men instead of fruit or nuts."

Rakharo laughed. "You good _ko_ , Ser Gendry. Is why you have …bell?" The others chuckled.

He touched the bun of hair at the back of his head and realized now why they thought it so funny when he took off his wolf helmet. He smiled, and the two women at Rakharo's side giggled. "Excuse me, Khal Rakharo, what does _ko_ mean?"

"Means 'blood of my blood'. You are princess Arya's bloodrider." He sought for words and the female translator whispered to him. "Like brother, guardian, companion." Rakharo's bloodrider returned from his mission to provide food and drink for their men and women outside. "Rogo will show you tents to rest. We speak more later, during feast."

They were dismissed and Rogo led them to their tent – one for Arya and her three _bloodriders_. Several young women about the age of Arya welcomed them and giggled nervously. One was very pretty and made eyes at Edric who was smiling rather sheepishly in return. They gestured to all four of them and pointed out where they could rest. Before they could say anything the servant girls helped them to undress, but when the blushing maiden started to pull at his laces, Gendry stopped her immediately. He saw Arya glaring at the girl. She gestured them to go away, and they widened their eyes, bowed and hastily ran outside. Edric turned his head to watch the pretty one leave.

"You good _ko_ ," Edric laughed, repeating Rakharo's words to Gendry. Gendry shoved him against she shoulder.

"Well, at least I spoke and I found out what it means. That went surprisingly well, didn't it, Arya?"

"It was a good start," she said pensive. "He has not yet agreed to give us safe passage. But at least we are no prisoners and he particularly made sure to let us know we are under the protection of guest right. But no doubt he has already sent riders out, probably to King's Landing." She looked around their tent and noticed a filled bathtub. "We'll just have to make the best of our present arrangement."

Brienne was quick enough to get the subtle cue given by Arya. "I'll go and find out where the rest of us have been settled."

Edric was a bit slower in comprehension and sat on the bed of horsehide to take off his boots and hit them against the floor of hides to get the dust and sand out. "I wonder what the feasts are like with them. But did I understand that correctly? They killed Viserys Targaryan for drawing his sword in their capital by pouring molten gold over his head?"

"That's what it sounded like, yes," said Gendry.

"Gods, that must be a cruel death. Did she witness that? Didn't she try to stop it?"

"I have no idea," said Arya. "Perhaps we can ask her, when she appears on one of her dragons after getting the news from Rakharo. I wonder whether they have ravens here and a maester. I didn't see one." Gendry and Edric shook their heads to indicate they had not seen one either. Arya coughed. "Lord Edric, I would like to take a bath for tonight's feast."

He looked up in surprise, and then from Arya to Gendry. "Oh, alright. Just let me get my boots on again, and I'll find out where those servants are." He flashed a smile at Gendry and was out of the tent in no time.

Arya smiled, sauntered up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Good _ko_ – ha, you're not my brother."

He grinned and lifted an eyebrow at her. "Blood of my blood sounds the closest thing to 'you are mine and I am yours'."

"You are mine, and I am yours," she whispered and placed her lips on his. He smiled while he kissed her back and lifted her from the ground. They stumbled towards her bed, while she yanked at his laces. "And nobody but me gets to undo _those_."

"Your wish is my command, M'lady," he said in between kisses, smiling.

The night at Kingsgrave, he had felt the need to take control - to be the one to tease her by not thrusting into all of her, wanting her to beg him, though she had not. He had even barely realized then that she had peaked, not until he felt the tremor of her muscles around his tip, and he finally sheathed her, only to sink into a well of powerful contractions, while his balls and root of his sword were welcomed by a surge of saline wetness, making his balls burst his seed. And when Gendry happened upon a variation to enhance both their satisfaction, he was eager for a chance to find whether it was repeatable.

After their lovemaking, they settled in the bathtub, and Arya lay in his arms, with her back against his chest, relaxed with eyes closed. He used a soft hide full of soap to lather her body. He could feel she was still tender from their joining. "You'll smell the freshest you've ever smelled," he whispered and kissed the outline of her jaw.

"Hmmm."

Her hair was partly wet and he decided he would wash it. "Go sit forward a bit, so I can wash that dark brown mop of yours. It's getting long you know." He poured water over it, lathered it with soap and then slowly massaged her scalp. "Do you really think the dragon queen will come here flying on her dragon?"

"I doubt it. Most likely, he'll send us to King's Landing with an escort."

"I don't like that."

"I know, but we must. You need to see Tobho Mott and learn how to reforge Valeryan steel. We need _Ice_ , not a third or two third of it."

He thought back on the story Rowland had told them at that place in the pass with the eight cairns. It had deeper significance than just the persons who died there, than the past. It was as if all that happened then had put into motion events up till now and none of it was resolved yet. He thought back of Jon Snow in his deep sleep and the white direwolf resting on his bed. It was strange to think of him as a Targaryan crown prince. Although the commander had never spoken to him, never opened his eyes, Gendry had confessed all his feelings about Arya as he thought of her then, and had felt there was some kind of bond between Jon Snow and him. And then there was the fact that both of them were bastards. But it turned out that he was the bastard son of King Robert, and Jon Snow was the unknown, but legitimate son of the Targaryan prince Rhaegar. Rhaegar and Robert had rivaled for the love of the same woman, by all accounts the mirror image of Arya. Would Jon Snow hate him for bedding his most beloved "sister"? The Lord Commander had after all intended to march on Winterfell against the Boltons with the Night's Watch. What would Jon Snow think of Arya if he learned she was a cousin, and not a sister? If he had Targaryen blood would he also share their desires for siblings and cousins? Gendry could not shake the idea that somehow his fate and that of the Starks was bound somehow.

His mind wandered to Jaime and Brienne who had brought Oathbreaker and Widow's Wail to Braavos and Arya. And now they had learned that it needed to be reforged in order to prevent or end the Long Night. Somehow he was part of that story, as Arya's lover, as a Baratheon bastard and as a blacksmith. Was it the Lord of Light who had pulled him into this Song of Ice and Fire, or Arya's Old Gods.

"Which gods do you follow, Arya?"

She opened her eyes, but squinted against the soap clinging against her eyebrows. "I prayed with my father to the Old Gods in our Godswood. And my mother and septa had me pray for the seven."

"So, which do you believe in?"

"The Old Gods cannot help where there are no weirwoods. I've never been a fan of the Seven though. In the House of Black and White they revere the Many Faced God. There were images of all the gods in Essos and Westeros that people pray to for death. There was a drawn weirwood face and the statue of the Stranger. I guess that the Many Faced God is my god, and the Old Gods and the Stranger are part of him."

He shuddered at the way she said it as if it was of little importance. And he remembered Melisandre's words about stealing the Darkheart from the Many Faced God. Even if Arya had left the guild, she still was a follower of their god. "Lean back." He took a cup and poured her head with water to wash out the soap. "Not many people are fond of the Stranger. They're scared of him."

"Hmmm. Most people are scared of death."

"And you're not?"

"No."

"How about R'hllor? Do you believe in him?"

"Yes, but I abhor his religion."

The venom in her voice surprised him. "It's my religion," he whispered.

"I know." She leaned against him with her back. "A religion of fire, burning people alive, bringing people back from the dead, and instilling fear. It is the opposite of the ways of the Many Faced God, Gendry, where death is a merciful gift and we accept that everyone must die."

"But the Lord of Light also brings life. Without life there is no death."

Arya turned to face him. "And without death what is the value of life?"

"Don't you want to live, Arya?"

She smiled as if remembering something. "What do we say to the Many Faced God? Not today."

He turned her around so she would lean against him and laid his chin on her shoulder. His hand involuntarily slid down her body. "What would happen if these two gods would not oppose each other anymore in an endless battle, but joined forces?"

Arya arched her back a bit in response to his touch, and caressed his face with her hand. _She is still tender_. "I don't know, Gendry, what happens when we are joined?" She smiled and chewed her bottom lip.

He growled at her, told her to face him and sit on his lap. He kissed her, languidly, while he rubbed the inside of her thighs with his thumbs. It was their kissing that usually helped the start from his blood flowing to his cock, but he soon realized he had nothing left to penetrate her again. And when she discovered this as her hand reached for his cock, she pouted disappointed. He chuckled. "I think I'm done for a while, but it doesn't mean I can't make you enjoy this bath." His thumb sought her small, erect knob, as he looked into her stormy eyes and smirked.

She bit her lip, and said, "But I want you inside."

With two fingers of the same hand, he reached for her crevice, and slid them in. He wondered whether he could simulate the excitation of her. It had been the frontal area that had been so sensitive, and experimentally he stroked her almost automatically at the ribbed bulge not far behind her entrance. "Does this help?"

When her mouth sought his tongue as an answer, the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. He tested her first by sliding over it gently, but then stayed his fingers on the ribbed swelling, and moved it back and fro with his fingertips in rapid come hither tickling, for the simple reason it required the least work over a longer time and almost instantly provoked a positive response. And when she clung to him, her head burried in his neck, sobbing, he knew this was the new source of ecstasy for her, while he whispered sweet encouragements to her.


	18. Khaleesi Mouse

She had met him before, the big black wolf. He was of her kind. Bigger and stronger even, and not one of her brothers, for he was older. The big black one had appeared one day from far away where there was always snow. The first time she met him was when she moved towards her old home in the hope to find her brothers and perhaps her human. He was alone, like her. He had no pack at all. Their meeting had been tense and wary of each other. They stood shoulder to shoulder, with fur bristled, tails out and wagging, and ears erect as they ventured a sniff of each other's nose and muzzle. But he soon stood in play posture, running and jumping and sniffing. He bowed, tilted his head and made a whining noise. They had bounced through the snow, playfighting, bumping each other, and nibbled for a period. They had even slept side by side. But one time, during play he bit too hard and she yelped and ran away from him to follow the trail she discovered of her biggest brother who went to the land of the many rivers where she lost her human. The black, lone wolf had howled then, calling her back, but she wanted her big brother.

She had forgotten all about him and had built her own pack, surrounding herself with her little brothers and sisters, smaller and weaker than her. At least she avoided getting hurt that way. She was sure to be boss of them. The last years had been hard on her though. At least the male brothers of her new pack had learned not to try and mount her. She had slain those who had tried, and the females hoping to take her position with one of the interested males as well, although she allowed some of the females that she knew would not go against her will to copulate. She was fond of pups. The most dangerous were rival single male packs, hoping to get her territory as well as her. They knew she was an alpha without a mate and they tried to isolate her and mount her even though she was not in heat. She slew them too, including the smart, older one that had managed to penetrate her briefly once.

But the black one of her own kind had found her, got a whiff of her scent somehow, and trailed the perimeter of her territory of the lands of frozen rivers and Frey pack. Some little sisters in heat tried to get his attention, but he showed little interest. She killed them. And he, he just seemed to be waiting and watching her with his uncanny light green eyes, patiently. She had grown and was not as an inexperienced, young wolf anymore. If he hurt her, she could hurt him back, even though he was bigger in size than her. She had ignored him mostly when he first reappeared, until she decided to visit him at her perimeter. He took it as a sign, cautiously, to stand shoulder to shoulder with her and greet her. She sniffed him too, and their initial play began anew, although she was wary to trust him as soon again and he made a point of never to nip at her harshly. She liked to nuzzle and lick with him, and they started to hunt together, including the human Frey pack once. He had pounced on the stout one with the black face pelt, killed him, but let her feed first on the nicest bits.

She had bled for a while not that long ago. After that she had started to feel an increasing need for him and peed everywhere. She isolated herself from her little brothers and sisters more and more to be with him. She had already put her tail to the side and presented to him a few times. He sniffed and nuzzled her increasing tender behind, but had remained patient, until today. She wanted him for her mate. Before she could even present to him, he sniffed and nuzzled the croup of her tail. He was eager. He was ready. She was all too ready and flagged her tail. He mounted her then, sliding into her and out, shifting from one leg to the other, while carefully holding her hind legs with his front paws. It was bliss as his cock increased in size inside her, and when she came, she clenched tightly around him while his cock grew even more. But it hurt when he dismounted her back and tried to step away from her. She yelped in pain. They were stuck, locked. She tried to nip at his hind legs to let her be. But they were inseparable. There was no unlocking it. He finally understood to stand at her side so it would least inconvenience her and laid his head on hers for comfort.

Arya woke up from her wolf dream, tender and aching. _Nymeria has a mate_ , she thought. _He's big and beautiful with his black pelt and green eyes that seem almost blue_. He reminded her of Gendry somehow. She smiled at the idea that Nymeria had found a mate as well. Then she realized she had fallen asleep in the main bed of the Dothraki tent and she was alone. It was late in the afternoon and there was to be a feast tonight. She turned and realized there lay an outfit prepared for her -Dothraki clothes of a leather skirt and some type of jerkin that would leave her belly bare. She looked around for her own clothes, but they were missing.

Brienne stepped into the tent. "One of those servants left it for you. They wanted me changed into something like that as well. It was all I could do to prevent them from tearing my clothes off. I arrived too late to save yours from being taken for washing."

Arya scowled. She would have had no issue wearing it at court, but she had no interest in looking like a Dothraki woman. She searched through her belongings that had been left untouched for other options, and decided on combining the grey bodice and grey blouse that went with it. It was either the grey velvet Braavosi skirt or the Dothraki one after all. She eyed Brienne in contemplation.

"All I have left is what I'm wearing, princess," said Brienne. "Sorry."

She stomped off to Gendry's belongings. It was but a small pack, containing his blacksmith tools, a tunic and a fur cloak. As she lifted his cloak to discover whether some other clothing item was hiding underneath, his wolf helmet lying on top of it, rolled off. That was no use. She eyed the horsehair pants laid out on his bedroll on the ground, just when she heard him talk in the common tongue to a man who responded in Dothraki outside of the tent. They were laughing.

"Gendry, get in here!" she said.

He stuck his head behind the horsehide that was meant to be the door with a questioning gaze and then he grinned as his eyes trailed her naked legs. "How may I be of service?"

"Get in here," she hissed. He finally stepped inside with a big smile and the hide fell close behind him. "Take off your pants!"

His smile grew even wider, until he noticed Brienne standing there. "Huh?"

She crossed her arms in front of her. "I'm wearing yours. You can wear the Dothraki pair they gave you."

"Why do you want to wear mine? Besides they're too big for you, anyway."

She pointed to the skirt. "I'll make do, but I'm not wearing _that_!"

His eyes wandered from the skirt to her legs again. He smirked and his eyes lit up. "You look pretty in a dress or skirt. And those Dothraki skirts, I bet, show a nice bit of leg and hug your hips just like breeches do." Just by the momentarily glazing of his blue eyes, she just knew he was imagining her in a Dothraki skirt, no doubt feeling up her leg in his mind, like the khal had done with one of the women sitting next to him. "What's wrong with it?"

She rolled her eyes at him, though she did make a mental note of it to keep the skirt and wear it once they left Nightsong far behind them. "It's a Dothraki one, and I'm not one of the Dothraki women here."

Gendry seemed genuinely puzzled. "It's just clothes, Arya."

But Brienne shook her head in disagreement with him, though she left it to Arya to make him understand. "Nothing is settled on when or how we will leave Nightsong and the Dothraki. And in just a few hours they'd have me dolled up as one of theirs. I'm Arya Stark remember, not one of these horselords' wives." She saw he still did not understand. Arya shook her head with a frown and impatience. "Oh, why am I trying to explain this to you? You're a guy, and you know nothing about these things." She waved her hand down in a deliberate gesture. "Now, take your pants off, so I can wear 'em."

He shrugged his shoulders. "As M'lady commands." And he stripped right in front of Brienne who had the decency to look away and pretend she was busy doing something else. Arya snatched his black breeches from his hands and pushed him, while he chuckled and donned on the Dothraki horsehair pair. "They're comfortable."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed very relaxed about being in a camp of a rumored two thousand Dothraki in only a few hours, while he had been scared of them only this morning still, and had ranted about her intention to ride into the Dothraki held castle four nights before. "What's going on with you?" she demanded. "How come you are so relaxed?"

He smiled. "I think I like these people. Rogo's not such a bad bloke once you get to know him a bit. He's been teaching me some words already. And if we stay here long enough, I want to try to make a sword of theirs, an arakh." He noticed his tool bag, picked it up to take it with him.

She rolled her eyes again. Arya knew it had something to do with forging. "I hope we don't stay here long enough for that."

He shrugged. "That's not really up to us anymore, is it?" Then he left the tent.

She sat down. His pants were too big indeed, and too long as well. She rolled them up and used her swordbelt to fix them around her hips. "Has he made friends with them already?" she asked Brienne.

"He's been spending time with that Rogo the past two hours, after the man showed interest in his hammer and let him hold his arakh," said Brienne. 

Ariy breathed an annoyed long sigh. _Just typical that. Men showing off their tools._ "And what's Edric been up too?" She had not seen him anymore since the late morning, since she hinted him gone.

"Making friends with Rogo and others as well," Brienne said neutrally. And then in a more conspiring voice, she said, "And has been helpful to one our servants - the pretty one."

Arya frowned. "You haven't been making any new friends here, have you?"

Brienne smiled. "No, princess." Arya could see the smile might disfigure her face more, because of the scar tissue on her cheek. But she found it was a warm smile and her eyes had a softness and shyness about her if you looked for it that actually made her like Brienne.

"Good," said Arya. "I'm sure the Dothraki are as friendly as any other normal people, but we should remain watchful. What about Jaime? Is he holding a low profile?"

Brienne nodded. "He's taken off his golden hand. They seem to think he's one of the least important of your company - a cripple. He won't be making much Dothraki friends."

"That was the intention." She felt sorry in a way that Jaime had to eat his pride and look the cripple, but Arya did not want the Dothraki to realize who was in their midst, let alone the dragon queen. "I want you two to remain close to me tonight at this feast. It doesn't sound like either Gendry or Edric might be watchful enough. Tomorrow, we should search Nightsong itself for Westeros servants or a maester. "

"I'll not leave your side, princess, unless you request it from me," said Brienne. She leaned towards Arya and whispered. "I don't trust them. That Rakharo had a look about him. I did see a raven fly in, not long ago," said Brienne. "It seems to me they might be using them for communication."

Arya smiled. "Perfect!" She just might pull it all off. "Perhaps you and I should see whether the Dothraki allow us to inspect the interior of Nightsong."

The corridors of Nightsong were not as empty, but a large household of servants who had come with the sprawling castle. It gave Arya almost the opportunity what Harrenhall would have been like if it had not been melted down by more than half. But while usually servants lived and slept in the castle halls, lofts, kitchens and stables, here they occupied the massive, rich appartments that otherwise would have gathered dust. Doors opened and they caught glimpses of commoner family life - arguments or children whailing as their mother berated them. Still, despite the many servants living in the castle, it was so large many whole corridors and rooms were still unocupied. These were the favorite haunts of playing children. Most servants they passed stared at them for a moment, not used to find guests walking around anymore, but then remembered their old curtsies, and obliged Arya and Brienne by giving needed directions. Yes, there was a maester at Nightsong as well as a rookery, and he had lived half of his life at Nightsong after finishing his studies in Oldtown. And yes, there were clothes piling up dust in the abandoned rooms, as well as armor and weapons in the armory. They had to turn back to the Dothraki tents before inspecting those, but Arya knew how she could fill her coming days.

It was impossible for all of her company to be present in the central tent, but Arya made sure _she_ decided this time who of her company would be there, instead of Rogo choosing for her. The Dothraki whispered when Jaime sat with her and her three kos on the raised platform where Rakharo's seat was. Aside from them Arya selected Asher, Hugo, Rowland, Donnel Flint, Morgan Liddle, Brandon Norrey, the Hornwood and Tallhart heirs and two of the most important knights from the Hermitage Daynes and two from Kingsgrave as representatives of her company in the tent itself. Although the tent was packed, the center was kept free. She took note of the fact that while the Dothraki wore plain leathers, almost all wore rich golden bells and collars, including the servant who set dishes of blood pie and spiced goat before them.

Rakharo sat in his seat on the platform with the two giggling women on his right. She was seated on his left on the hides and furs of the platform itself. She was fully aware of the fact that she had to look up to him in order to talk with him, and that he only had to glance to see the outline of her breasts in her grey bodice. While she had no issue using her bodily attributes to get something, for once since a very long time, she was not completely comfortable about it. Queen Danaerys may have prohibited Dothraki reaping and enslaving, but she was aware enough that it was part of their homeland culture. She dearly hoped that at least one of the giggly girls next to him was his wife. But Arya thought such an inquiry may be taken the wrong way.

Gendry and then Edric were seated beside her and Jaime and Brienne behind. Rogo and the two other kos of Khal Rakharo had wurmed their way in between Gendry and Edric, gesticulating in order to make some sort of exchange. Eventually, desperate for Rakharo's translator Rogo called Jhiqui to join them and that solved a large part of the communication issues. She could see what Brienne had mentioned. Rogo seemed to be about Gendry's age, curious and eager to socialize. He seemed a pleasant man, and she could see why Gendry found him likeable.

"So, tell me about princess Arya's home," Rakharo asked of her. He tore of a chunk of goat meet from the skewer with his sparkling, white teeth.

She had to think to remember it. She had not seen it for six years herself, little less than half her life. "It is cold in the North. It even has snow in the summer and many woods to hunt and ride." Arya followed Rakharo's example. She pried the roasted goat meat loose with her fingers from the skewer, not caring about getting her fingers sticky with honey. It tasted tender and succulent. While she was more used to a version seasoned with garlic, this version tasted more exotic and brought visions of Dothraki galoping on sweaty horses and feeling the wind of the plains. The honey sweetened it. Cherry juice and some type of lemony grass made it tart and peppers made it spicy all at once. She even licked her fingers.

"Rhakaro not like snow and cold. Not good for horses. Hranna better – plenty grass and space to ride. How princess Arya learn ride good on horse when trees block path?"

She smiled. "There are roads and hunter paths, but it also trains you for difficult riding ground. Teaches agility and jumping."

Rakharo seemed to think her answer over, before he nodded. "I understand."

"May I ask how many riders you have? I was told you have two thousand riders in this area."

"Two thousand around Nightsong, yes" he said. "As many on hranna – marches. Princess Arya meet Dothraki before?"

She remembered the two with the Bloody Mummers and had seen some in the ports of the Free Cities in Braavos as well as the voyage to Starfall. But she had no intention of mentioning them. "In Dorne, when several attacked us with Oakhearts."

Rakharo spit. "Men from Khal Khabaro in Reach. No good. We here to maintain peace between Reach, Dorne and Stormlands, not war. Will make sure khaleesi Danaerys knows of this."

"They say you have always been true to Queen Danaerys."

"Yes. Am blood of blood. I stayed after Khal Drogo died. Saw dragons born." He brought his hands close together and grinned. "Only this big in the beginning."

He made it sound as if that would have been cute to see. But she remembered the row of skulls she had seen in the Red Keep once. "How big are they now?"

He waved his hand to indicate the giant central tent. "As big as tent." She swallowed. "Can burn all Nightsong with five breaths."

Arya chewed her bottom lip, pondering how to broach the subject of what she really wanted to talk about with him . "Would it be safe to cross the Marches? Do the dragons fly free?"

He watched her bemused but refrained from answering. "Princess Arya, watch dancing." At the same time he pushed a plate of half moon pies in her direction and motioned her to take one, while he munched one down himself. "Horse meat," he said.

She decided to take one pie and found the fried, leafy dough wonderfully chewy. When she tasted the spiced black horse pudding inside it bursted in her mouth with flavor. It contained a pop of garlic, sweet cooked leek, and complimented the blood sausage, so none of it was overpowering. She drank milk tea to swallow it down. At the center of the tent several of the Dothraki women swayed their hips and heads in a manner she only was used to seeing in the sleaziest of brothels. But there had been plenty of those in Ragman's Harbor in Braavos. She realized Rakharo was watching her reaction closely, and it gave her a prickly sensation in her neck. The dancing did not bother her, not even when Dothraki men joined the women to put their hands on their hips, stand beside them and rub their crotch against those asses. Arya had seen bare breasts and groping at some of the feasts at Winterfell even as a child already. But it troubled her that Rakharo was so very much interested in her response to it. _Maybe he assumes I'm used to court life._ Arya chuckled softly when she imagined such scenes at the Red Keep. Meanwhile, she could hear and see from the corner of her eye that Gendry had barely noticed what was happening. He was talking metal and debating armor. She knew he would have little attention for anything else when his passion was the subject of conversation. As for Edric he was smiling at the pretty servant of theirs.

"Princess Arya like dancing?" Rakharo whispered to her, and his overpowering smell hit her nostrils. She shivered, but not in the way that Gendry made her tremble. It was a bad kind of shivering.

Still, Arya was surprised Gendry was for a moment distracted and must have heard that seedy whisper. "The princess only does the water dance," he answered for her. She smiled a little for it, at least reassured that Gendry still had some attention for her.

"What is water dance?" Rakharo asked, as he narrowed his eyes at Gendry. Arya had been unsure on how much she wanted their intimacy revealed. She did not want the dragon queen to doubt his vows as a brother of the Night's Watch. A Baratheon bastard of the Night's Watch was no threat to her, but one who loved a Stark princess was an altogether different scenario. And with Rakharo eyeing her increasingly as if she could be his next meal in bed, she also grew wary of the Dothraki knowing she was not a maiden, or provoke Gendry into a fight. The turn of the mood of the dancing at the center of the tent only stressed this point. There was little dancing happening, and mostly fucking, with several men sharing and taking turns, and others starting fights over a woman.

She reminded herself that what was happening before her eyes was not that much different of men fighting over whores. "It is a Braavos dance," she said curtly. "A sword dance – a deadly one."

But her words brought excitement in the man's dark eyes. Then he laughed. "Oh, but this dance can be deadly too."

Right then one Dothraki slew another; chopped his head off and it landed at their feet.

Gendry's jaw flexed and he felt all tense next to her. "This is no fit feast for a princess," he said gruff. He got up and pulled her up without asking. "M'lady." Brienne and Jaime were up at once as well. Edric was nowhere in sight anymore. This time, Arya had no intention to argue with Gendry over staying around, or discuss ringing bells.

Arya turned and inclined her head just a little at the Khal. "Please, excuse us, for I'm tired."

The ensuing days there was little progress in their situation. Each time Arya brought up the topic on when and how she could leave, with or without his protection, Rakharo avoided answering altogether. Arya distrusted Rakharo's intentions for her more and more. She saw little of Gendry during the day and if she searched him she found him often with Rogo. On the third day he had started to try his hand on making an arakh himself. Meanwhile, she hardly ever found herself alone with him in her tent, because the Dothraki servant girls accompanied her almost all the time. According to Jiqhui they saw themselves as being Arya's handmaidens. They even slept inside her tent. At least she had retrieved a pile of Westeros clothing from Nightsong's rooms, on the second day. And though she was hesitant to pillage the armory, the maester gave her leave for it, because he expected it to rust uselessly otherwise. She left it to Gendry to inspect it and inform her little company.

She had several dreams of Nymeria and her mate as they slept side by side, hunted together and copulated often. It only made her ache for Gendry more. But on the fifth night her dream revealed Nymeria under threat. An unfamiliar pack of single male wolves had come upon the isolated pair, attracted by her scent in heat. Except for the two biggest males, the others had attacked Nymeria's mate to separate them. And the remaining two had cornered the she-direwolf, without her mate being able to help her. She had fought as violent and aggressive as she could, but one tricked her, so the other managed to mount her, by using her involuntarily flagging response. She whirled, she fought, while she felt the aggressor swell inside her already. She had managed to kill his helper, and aimed to rid herself of the other before he could lock with her. Her mate had finally sent the remainder of single males he had not yet killed running and ripped at her aggressor's flank. She escaped and together they ripped at the other until there was nothing left but obliterated flesh, guts and blood spread across the snow, pelt and bones.

The dream had filled Arya with dread. She could not shake the idea that she was in a similar situation, even although not as violent at face value. She finally realized what Rakharo might have as intentions. Arya had finally learned of the fact that he was unmarried and she could not deny that the last time she had met with him that his eyes were filled with nothing but lust. She knew she had to leave Nightsong and force Rakharo in letting her go as soon as possible. The longer she stayed, the more she feared he would take her for his wife, regardless of her own will. Arya had dismissed the handmaidens with an excuse and an errant for her, while she started to pack her things.

"Gendry make good Dothraki," Rakharo said behind her. The hairs in her neck stood upright. He was inside in her tent, and he had never done that before. Slowly she turned around and Rakharo stood only inches away from her. She could feel his breath on her and his wandering eyes over her body. "Princess Arya make good Khaleesi," he grinned. His hand pulled at her jerkin to look inside better, and felt up her hips. "Khal Rakharo has no Khaleesi." The hand at her jerkin went to her hair and he brought it to his nose, before he trailed her cheekbones with his finger. "Arya beautiful, strong. Rhakaro thinks Westeros women beautiful, but Arya most beautiful of all."

She had her finger knife hidden in her sleeve already in hand, exactly as Red Roggo taught her, aimed at his spleen. "Don't touch me. Princess Arya is deadly," she hissed. But she dared not kill him. Four thousand Dothraki wanting revenge seemed not a good plan. All she could hope for was bluff her way out.

But she could see in his eyes it only increased his lust. "Yes, Rakharo like deadly Arya." He even pressed his body slightly against her dagger.

This man was not afraid to die. She could kill him, but it would be the death of everyone with her. "Guest right," she said. "You promised me protection under guest right."

"Rakharo will protect you and yours. But protection better if you marry the khal. Rakharo will kill those who killed your family for you, give you plenty gold and servants. " He grabbed her wrist forcibly and wrung the dagger from her hand. She realized she should have risked killing him, rather than bluff. "You hard, strong woman who needs tough man to protect her. You will make me good sons." He twisted her arm and Arya tried to bit back the pain, but Rakharo was too strong and forced her down onto the bed, face down.

"No! No! This is against guest right." She twisted, she tried to kick at him, but he had her in hold that left little room for her to move unless she dislocated her shoulder. She pressed her eyes closed, biting back tears of anger, when he ripped her pants and exposed her ass. It had been years since anyone had made her feel like a mouse again.

"Princess Arya will feel how strong Rakharo is."

"No," she said again, but the way his one knee on her back pressed the air out of her lungs, it barely came out as a whisper. She felt his stiff cock bumping against her thigh and seek her entrance. She wriggled away, but it was useless and she braced herself for the moment he would force himself into her. _I will kill him! He's dead!_

But then, it did not come. He still had his weight on her. "Don't touch her." _Gendry!_ She craned her neck to see, and Gendry had his sword on Rakharo's throat. "Stand up slowly, or you're dead." Arya coughed for air when she finally was released from Rakharo's hold. She pushed herself up, taking a big gulp of breadth. "Arya, get your things. We're leaving."

But she did not trust Rakharo, and grabbed her boot dagger and held it against his kidneys from behind. "You will let us go, today, with one of your khas as an escort. Four days ago, I already sent a message to Queen Danaerys to alert her of my presence and that I asked you for help to reach King's Landing to parley with her regarding the North's alliance with her rule. She won't like it if you act on your own, force me into marriage and I send another raven to her tell her that I killed you for it. After all, one of her dragons can scorch this place with five breaths."

Rakharo shuffled slowly towards the entrance, hands open to indicate he would do nothing. "Princess Arya, not only beautiful, strong and deadly, but smart too." Right then, Brienne entered the tent, and realized what must have occurred, with Edric right behind her. "Rogo and Jhiqui will go with you to King's Landing."

"Thank you, Khal Rakharo, I'm very much obliged to you," she sneered. Coldly, she whispered, "Remember, Danaerys is aware of me being here, as are others. I sent several ravens. You harming us today or on the way to King's Landing can and will be used against you. The North remembers." She lifted her dagger and slid it back into her booth.

"No harm will come," he said gruff and then he left the tent.

Gendry was instantly by her side, trying to hold her. "Are you alright?" Meanwhile Brienne peered beyond the hide to see what was happening.

Arya pushed Gendry gently away. "Edric, get your men and women ready and alert my men." There was no time to dally on questions. She was shaking and furious and grateful. "There's no time to lose. He still might change his mind. The faster we're on our horses and away from him, the better."

Gendry looked at a loss at her lack of emotional response. But she was searching amongst the clothes the Dothraki handmaidens had brought for something wearable on the road and had her back on him. She found a pair of pants that would do and threw away her pair that was ruined. Arya felt his hand touching her shoulder, behind her. "No time, Gendry," she said flat. As he dropped his hand and stepped away, she whispered, "Thank you," and closed her eyes.


	19. The Rock

It had been a week since they hastily rode out of Nightsong and neared the northern border of the Marches. Although the ground was more even than the Red Mountains had been, they were also many more people. Khal Rakharo had sent a thousand riders with them and Rogo leading them. And based on Rogo's pleasant and chatty company, it did not seem to be in the know what had occurred to provoke their sudden departure. But with that many, it meant having slow carts along - carrying lifestock and servants who did not ride - and a lot of time spent to break and set up camp. It was of course arguably much more comfortable, and it was doubtful an army of the Reach would attack them. Gendry even started to believe they might reach King's Landing without any further danger to their lives. In that sense Arya's plan had worked to their benefit, but at a cost of herself.

Arya had not spoken about her near rape and rebuffed any of his efforts to talk with him or be near her. She was not unkind about it, but she made it very clear to him that she wanted to be by herself. He was not the sole one she avoided or with whom she acted distanced. She did not smile or laugh at Hugo or No Nose Ned's jokes anymore. She never even showed any outward sign of her usual temperament. The only one she spent considerable time with was Beren Tallhart who was of her own age. Gendry worried about her and wished to understand why she was acting so sullen and apathetic. Was she ashamed? Had he come too late to her rescue after all? Did she blame him? Was she afraid he would force himself onto her?

He rode behind her and looked at her back in deep thought, frowning and worry lines etched in his forehead. Brienne rode up beside him. "She needs time," she said.

"I'm giving her all the time and space she needs," he grumbled. "But since we left there has been no change in her."

"She's a fighter. It's how she learned to keep herself out of harm's way, despite her lithe built and height. It's how she aims to have control over those around her, especially men. Most of the time it works, and it probably did for many years. But Rakharo managed to trample all over her defenses, most likely making her feel weak and helpless. He reminded her of her physical vulnerability."

Gendry frowned. He had never looked at in that way. But it made sense, even as far back as her pretending to be a boy on King's Road with Yoren and all the men and boys going to the Wall. She had been terrified when he challenged her to piss in front of him to prove she was a boy. Not all her fight was about control though. Some of it had been pure hatred, like when she tried to stab Sandor Clegane. But her tough act made sense in that way.

It suddenly made him wonder about her trying to get him to help her free the prisoners in Harrenhall. He had been against that, thinking that working for Ser Amory could not be worse than armoring for another lord, and better the enemy you know than the one you do not. When Roose Bolton allowed servants to be maimed, chained and killed for having served the wrong master, including the master armorer, Gendry even had been resentful with her Weasel soup actions and feared the same fate might befall them one day. He had only assumed she wanted to free the prisoners, because they were her brother's bannermen. But now he could put things in better perspective. Gendry realized that at the time, he had a uniquely  important task as a smith under Ser Amory and Lord Bolton - making and repairing armor and swords. It was not as if there were dozen men knocking on Harrenhall's gate looking for a position. Arya though had the lowest servant status with Ser Amory - an errand girl. More, it was known she was a girl, and plenty of worst of the worst with the Bloody Mummers who were impatient to wait their turn on Pia and would not blink at the thought of raping a child of ten who had not bled yet. Nobody would care about an errand girl being raped. _Maybe she had a more personal reason for it? Just maybe she was making sure nobody would rape her._ After Lord Bolton took Harrenhall and she had become famous with her Weasel soup her status had improved at Harrenhall. She became Roose Bolton's cupbearer. And now that he thought of it. It was strange that Arya had not revealed to Roose who she truly was. _If she truly had been naïve about Lord Bolton being her brother's man, why had she claimed to be Nan, the servant girl?_ He felt like hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. _Why the bloody hell did I never consider she wanted a change of Lord holding Harrenhall for her own safety?_ He felt his cheeks flush with shame at the thought how mean and reproachful he had been about admiring her bloody work of the slain servants or those put in stocks to whither away. _And I expect her to turn to me now for consolation?_

He turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Brienne. "How do you know all this? Did she tell you?"

Brienne chuckled under her breadth. "No, Ser Gendry, of course not. She will never tell that to anyone, because that would be admitting she can be vulnerable."

"Then how do you know?"

For a moment, Brienne's eyes and expression revealed a flash of pain. She turned her head and looked at Jaime riding behind them. Then she met Gendry's gaze and smiled sadly. "Because I'm not so different, Ser Gendry. When I was on the road with Jaime on the way to King's Landing to free Sansa and Arya, we were captured by the Bloody Mummers. It's how Jaime lost his hand. They wanted to rape me. I fought as hard as I could, but against that many, I was powerless. Jaime told the Goat a lie about the riches of my father, while the rest of them had me pinned down on the ground. Feeling utterly helpless against someone who wishes to do things to you against your will, is the most humiliating that can happen."

 _So, that is how those two bonded and he knew Biter and Rorge._ He remembered Vargo Hoat and his speech impediment all too well. That man had been a sick bastard. He shuddered also at the memory when he was helplessly bound to the chair with the rat in the bucket about to be _tickled_. He never had wanted to talk about that either. But that experience was nothing compared to how he had felt when he thought that Arya might have been killed at the Red Wedding in the Twins and he had been nowhere near to protect or save her. "But so is feeling you fail at protecting the one you care about."

"You were there, on time, Ser Gendry," Brienne said softly. "She knows that, and there is no doubt in my mind that she is grateful for it. She just can't admit that right now, because it requires her to accept how helpless she felt at the time."

And so, Gendry reminded himself of Brienne's advice whenever Arya turned her back on him when he came to ask her something as insignificant where she wanted her tent put up. He refrained from staring at her across the camp fire, or drinking the fermented milk Rogo tried to push on him. He kept his tone neutral, neither showing insecurity, anxiousness or hurt when she answered his practical questions in a flat tone, although he felt it all anyway. He neither attempted to touch her, nor allowed too much physical distance between them. And somehow that patience started to pay off. They were out of the Marches and were near Ashford, when he woke up one night as Arya crawled under his blanket and curled up beside him, instead of sleeping in the tent's central bed that she shared with the three Dothraki handmaidens. She said nothing. She simply took his hand and put it around her waist and lay in his arms while he cursed himself for the involuntarily erection he got with her tight, but well rounded ass up against him and her female smell making him dizzy with lust and fiery desire. The moans, groans and other fucking noises coming from Edric's bedroll were no help either. He almost nuzzled her neck and slid his head from her flat stomach to the her curly hair down below and the small knob he knew nestled there. And yet, now that she finally sought him out, even if it was only to be held, the last thing he wanted was to remind her of his need or do anything that might scare her away. She fell asleep soon and woke a few hours later to slip back into her bed with her handmaidens without saying a word. He wondered whether his stiff cock straining between them had finally made her run from him, or exactly the opposite; that he was not trying to make love to her. It was confusing as hell.

Still, Arya did the same thing again the following night, and the night after that, and the one after that as well, each time going back to her main bed before morning, but each time a little later. At least he had made sure to sleep in his britches the second night and afterwards. It was sweet agony, to lie still with his body wrapped around her. He so much wanted to cover her with admiring kisses, stroke her and make love to her. His instincts told him to win her over, to persuade her she could trust him. But he did not dare to do so, repeating to himself over and over what Brienne had told him. _Give her time._ Brienne had made clear to him he had no control over this, that he just had to let Arya set the pace. Finally, he knew he had done well by her on the morning he saw Arya smile for the first time since a long while as Hugo Wull joked about sleeping under a proper roof the coming night.

Ashford with its whitewashed houses and thatched roofs and its triangular castle with rounded towers, thirty feet tall and crenellated walls, had been untouched by the war in the Reach. Queen Danaerys had mostly focused on Highgarden and south of there. House Ashford had declared for Queen Danaerys as soon as she fought against Aegon. So, Lord Garth Ashford welcomed them warmly, although the thousand Dothraki riding with them camped outside in their tents. But Dayne's and Manwoody's soldiers and Arya's Wolf Pack were allowed to sleep in the great hall on the straw laid out. The weather had become increasingly colder, the more north they had traveled, but it was still warm enough - comparable to a good autumn day. Only Lord Dayne and Princess Arya were each assigned a private room befitting their rank.

"And Ser Gendry," Arya said. "He's my guard and captain. I want him to have a room in the same corridor."

Lord Ashford was a man well in his fifties, with white, curly hair and pale blue eyes and flush, fat cheeks. He looked somewhat stunned at her request, but then considered his black garb. "Are you a man of the Night's Watch?" he asked.

Gendry nodded, while Arya answered for him, "Yes, he was sent by my brother, the Lord Commander of the Watch, to find and retrieve me." Gendry feared he detected a hint of frustration in her voice, or was it disdain.

Her reference to his accursed Night's Watch vows pained him. Was that all he was to her now? The one to guard her door? And yet, he had claimed that duty all for himself on _Winter Heart_ when they sailed from Braavos to Starfall. He knew she was only confirming and allowing him to do what he had demanded for himself several months ago. Or did she want him near to crawl into his bed?

It was a small damp, spare chamber with the bed being no more than a cot with a straw mattress and no fireplace and no window. To be honest, he would have preferred his bedroll in a Dothraki tent over this. But there was a pale of cold water and he washed himself, before going down in his black breeches, black shirt and tunic for the evening meal. Arya and Lord Dayne were seated with Lord Ashford, his son and daughters at the dais, while he was seated with the Wolf Pack at a table far removed from them. But the hearty meal was refreshing and welcomed by all who had tired of exotic, spiced food. There was an abundance of fresh greens starting with leek soup, then a salad of turnips, carrots, onions and greasy poultry to gnaw from the bone and sweet plum wine to help it all go down. Jaime eating beside him looked scruffier even than when he first saw him in Braavos. He had grown a heavy beard , that was far darker than his mop of blond hair, and wore his hood of his shaggy cloak even inside. He had ridden with the golden hand all the way to Ashford, but like at Nightsong he had removed it from sight. If he had an axe hanging from his belt, instead of a sword, he would have almost looked a Northerner from the Mountain clans.

Arya though looked different and it took a while before Gendry realized she had picked a modest, pale blue dress in a thick woven cloth. Her hair too was braided comely in some highborn, but modest fashion. It was as if his wild, warrior queen had never existed. No britches, no loose hair, no deeply cut bodice or jerkins, no strong color. She looked beautiful of course. She always looked beautiful to him. Hell, she could have been covered in mud and her hair cut off to the scalp, and she would still be the most beautiful woman to him. But she had never looked as proper a Lady as then, not even when she wore that acorn dress. She ate with small bites and listened rather than talked. Was that truly who she wanted to be now? Or was it an act? He hoped it was the latter, because it just made him feel as when he was still a boy and she was going on about him forging for her brother in Riverrun. And it frustrated him to no end. Made him angry too.

Apparently, Ashford Castle had a storyteller and a singer who were to entertain them for the evening. The storyteller recounted tales and fights of the Tourney of Ashford Meadow that had been held a little less than a hundred years ago. The then Lord Ashford had staged the tourney to celebrate his daughter's thirteenth name day. She had been proclaimed the queen of love and beauty at the start of it and five champions defended her honor. The challengers who defeated one of them would become her new champion. The remaining champions determined whether the girl would keep her title or not,  after three days of jousting. The storyteller described this child of love and beauty as short as Arya, with blonde hair and a round face. If Lord Garth Ashford's looks were any indicated, Gendry doubted whether the girl in the story ever truly deserved such a title. When he learned that the Laughing Storm, Lord Lyonel Baratheon, had been one of the challengers who became champion, for a moment Gendry's mind wandered to what a tourney would actually be like. There had been plenty tourneys at King's Landing, and he had often wished for a chance to go see, but Tobho Mott never allowed him to and instead the only glimpses he ever got were the knights coming for an order or repair of their armor, like Thoros of Myr with his burning swords, and the gossip at the end of each day in the inns over a pint. Tall, black of hair, formidable in strength and endurance, and with booming laughter the storyteller described Gendry's ancestor, and he tried to imagine himself jousting. For Gendry there would be no doubt who he would crown queen of love and beauty. It would not have been the round faced, blonde girl either. Of course, brothers of the Night's Watch never jousted or performed in any of the other competitions of a tournament.

Jaime jabbed Gendry's ribs with his elbow. "That's the one who rebelled against Aegon V, after Duncan married Jenny of Oldstones instead of Lyonel's daughter. In exchange his son married Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, and why you have dragon blood in your veins."

Gendry had never considered this part of his ancestry. He barely had dwelled on his father really, or Storm's End. But listening to the Laughing Storm's antics at Ashford Meadow and Jaime's mentioning the dragon blood made him aware of actually having ancestors. "Why is this tournament so important? Is Ashford such a boring place they can only talk about some tourney of a hundred years ago?"

"That," Jaime sneered, "And the death of the crown prince Baelor Targaryen. Duncan the Tall had a skirmish with Prince Aerion, claiming to defend the weak as a knight. The prince demanded a trial of seven and accused Duncan the Tall of striking him and his brother Daerion. Duncan won, but Baelor who had fought on his side died from a blow to his head by his brother Maekar who was the father of Aegon V."

All those names were giving him a headache. How anyone could tell them apart was beyond him. He only knew of Ser Duncan the Tall. There had been a mobile puppet theater on the Fishmonger's Square for the children to watch reenactments of legendary stories, like Jonquil and her Florian. But Dunk's adventures always had been his favourite puppet theatres. That had been the type of knight he hoped to be one day. Like him Dunk had been born in Flea Bottom, squired for a hedge knight, hoped to find his father at the Wall, and then entered the Tourney of Ashford along with Egg, claiming Ser Arlan had knighted him. Suddenly Gendry realized the storyteller's retelling of the tournament was one and the same of his childhood favorite the Hedge Knight about Dunk and Egg. He simply had not recognized it for what it was, because the version he had heard tonight was about the tournament itself, intended for adults, and not the antics of Dunk and Egg. Being reminded of those puppeteer theatres, and knowing this castle actually was the seat of one of the children's stories that had inspired him to become a knight one day, Gendry realized that truly his own young life was not all that different. But instead of an Egg he had an Arry, _and a Weasel, and a Squat_.

"So, was the daughter confirmed as Queen of Love and Beauty at the end?" Gendry asked Jaime when he realized the storyteller was done and people were clapping for him. Somehow, he had missed the ending.

Jaime laughed. "Nobody knows. Dunk and Egg messed it up."

Then it was the singer's turn. He sang a "Rose of Gold" and "Jenny's song", which brought the painful memory of his effort to sing it for the Ghost of High Heart. But he also sang "Wolf in the Night" and "The Winter Maid" on popular demand by the men of the Mountain clans. The minstrel did not know "Black Pines" and "Wolves in the Hills". So Hugo Wull, No Nose Ned, Morgan Liddle, Donnel Flint and Brandon Norrey the Younger sang it noisily for all of the hall to hear and the singer to learn. But they were warned by Jaime not to sing "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" with an undeniable threat, so when the singer started to strum his strings to sing that one, they booed him for it.

"Sing us 'The Seasons of my Love'!" Asher shouted and winked at Gendry.

And then Arya beckoned the singer and whispered a request in his ear. Her face betrayed nothing, and she never met Gendry's eyes the whole evening, but when the singer began to sing, " _My featherbed is deep and soft_ , …" the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. Tom Sevenstrings had played many songs with the Brotherhood and repeated them often, but he had only sung that one once to Gendry's memory at Acorn Hall, which was why Gendry had always regarded it as a song sung especially for him and Arya.

" _For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord._

_I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword._

_And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree._

_She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me._

_I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,_

_But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass."_

Eventually, Arya bid everyone a good night and left the hall. Lord Ashford wished everyone a warm night of sleep, and Gendry went to the damp room and laid himself down on the straw filled mattress, with his hands tucked under his head, waiting for Arya. But she did not come and he could not catch any sleep. He sat down on the edge of his cot, ran his hand through his hair and said to himself, _Enough of this. She just ought to trust me_. He got up and moved down the corridor on his bare feet for her room. He opened the door. A fire burned low in the fireplace, and Arya lay asleep in a giant featherbed with three of the Dothraki handmaidens. _The fourth no doubt can be found in Edric's room._

One of the handmaidens, Jhiri, opened her eyes in alarm. "Out!" he said. "All of you, out!"

They looked uncertain, while Arya flickered her eyes open and asked, "What's…" She saw him standing there, while he gestured Jhiri and the other two to leave. Her eyes betrayed nothing, but she nodded at them to go.

They eyed him wary and seemed to want to protest, said something in Dothraki he did not understand. He simply shook his head, pointed at the door, "Out, I said."

When they were gone, he looked around the room, turning on his heel, and assessed all of its riches. There lay furs on the ground. An empty bathtub stood in the corner. There were two chairs and a large window with heavy drapes to keep out the night's frost. He realized then that this was the first time he'd seen or even been in a bedroom this rich. And on top of that it was warm in here. He grabbed his tunic with both hands at his back and pulled it over his head, turning it inside out. He faced Arya, who had not spoken yet at all, but was watching him from the featherbed in a modest night shift.

"I can't guard you well from that room. Move over. I've never slept in a featherbed for all of my life. At least I want to try it out for once."

She looked away, but he saw her smile a little nonetheless, _finally_. She shifted to the side and lifted the downy cover for him. "You might want to get rid of that shirt as well. You have more body heat than I have."

He grunted in agreement. Gendry still felt blazing hot in the room, with its fire, and his shirt on. He undid the laces and pulled it over his head as he did with his tunic and undid his sword belt, before slipping between the sheets, under the down and covers. He snuggled close to her, and pulled her in his arm. "Is this what your room at Winterfell looked like?"

She rested her head and her hand on his chest. "It is not that much different. Although I rarely ever needed a fire. Winterfell is built on top of hot springs and Bran the Builder built it so that its heat gets around the walls."

He nodded, still looking around and trying to make out the depictions of the tapestries hanging from the wall. He realized they were about the Ashford tourney. "It's cozy. I like it." He squeezed her shoulder. "Tell me something of when you were a child in Winterfell, about your family, your friends, your sister."

"Sansa and I didn't get along well, Gendry."

He frowned. He never had any sister or brother, so he did not know why they would not like each other. Willow and Jeyne Heddle went along fine. "Why not?"

Arya shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I guess it wasn't her fault, nor mine. But she did everything perfect. She was always a real lady, beautiful, good at singing and dancing, soft voiced, perfect posture. She didn't slouch like me. She always did her curtsies and knew the right thing to say, and made beautiful dresses. I sucked at all that. Sansa was as beautiful as my mother."

He lifted his head a bit to look at her and he smirked. "So, I guess she never fought boys in the mud of the yard or the smithy then."

"No," Arya giggled.

"What about friends then?" He lay back down again.

Arya scratched her nose and was silent for a while, until eventually she said, "I didn't really have friends, aside from Jon really. But he was bigger and well I had to steal out of Septa Mordane's classes to see him." He could hear fondness in her voice when she mentioned Jon, but also a sadness when she mentioned being friendless. "He was the one who had Mikken make Needle for me, when he left for the Wall and I for King's Landing."

 _So, that's why she's so fond of that blade._ He had studied Needle closer once, and it was well made alright, but no bigger than meant to be used by a child. He had proposed in Braavos to make another one for her, but she had declined it. If it was the last parting gift of her sole friend and beloved brother - well cousin - before she last saw him and Winterfell though, he understood why she did not want to part with it. "And there were no other girls, beside your sister to play with?"

"Sure, there was Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter and Beth Cassel, the daughter of the Master-of-arms, Ser Rodrik. Beth was younger than I and Jeyne closer to Sansa's age. They both admired my sister. Beth was alright, but Jeyne... I always thought she hated me. She was mean."

Gendry narrowed his eyes. He remembered the pitiful girl with a part of her nose missing at Castle Black. "Mean in what way?"

"She called me Arya Horseface and would neigh like a horse whenever I came near her, or well my sister. I looked up to my big sister and wanted to be included in the play. I ran after them, and she would make Sansa run harder so I couldn't keep up. She told me I was too ugly and too clumsy and wild – horsefaced - to play with them. I liked Arya Underfoot much better." Her eyes glanced up at him, before she snuggled herself well and good back in the pit of his shoulder, and laid her leg over his, intertwining their feet. "That's what the servants called me."

"Hmmm." Gendry frowned, while his hand carressed her shoulder. It made several of her choices way clearer to him. She somehow had come to believe Jeyne's opinion as fact, and though she probably was not naturally inclined to be the _perfect_ Lady like her sister, as she put it, it sounded like the reactions of others discouraged her from trying any further. With his free hand he cupped her chin, to make her look in his eyes when he spoke, so that she could see he meant it. "You're not ugly, Arya. You never were, not even when you pretended to be scruffy Arry. And you acted the perfect lady tonight without fault. You nearly had me fooled - I like you better wild though," he whispered. "Jeyne Poole was wrong about you."

She blushed. "It's nice that you think of that me, but you're biased."

He let go of her chin and laughed. "I don't think so. Well, perhaps, a little. But I see men look at you all the time. They can't all be biased."

Gendry felt her tense a little. He had just reminded her of how a man like Rakharo wanted her for himself against her will. "My father once told me I reminded him of his sister, Lyanna, both in temper and looks. I was shocked when he told me. Everyone else always said that Lyanna was beautiful, but how could that be if she had a horseface like me?"

The corners of his mouth tugged up and his dimples appeared. "Has it ever occurred to you that your sister's friend said all that, because she was jealous of you?"

Arya was silent. "No," she said doubtful, eventually.

He gave her time to let the thought sink in, before he explained to her why he thought that. "She was the steward's daughter and Sansa's friend, brought up with you to read and write. Like your sister she dreamed of knights and lords, but knowing any chance for that was low. And then a younger sister is born who might take her place and would no doubt have been arranged to marry a prince, lord or knight. So, she wanted to make you feel bad and scare you away from coming near Sansa. Maybe she wished she was you." It did not seem all that different than when he was seething with jealousy over Edric, when he was a boy, and hell even a few months ago. He remembered something all of a sudden. "Didn't you tell Edric once that your sister's friend had fallen in love with Ser Beric when she had seen him at a tourney? And Edric told you then that Ser Beric was already engaged to his aunt, Allyria." He had not told her about Jaime's revelations that implied Allyria was Arya's half-sister. Admittedly, Allyria had some of that Stark look when he had seen her after Arya had killed the Darkstar, but not by much and Ashara had been dark haired, and for all he knew Jaime had misunderstood Ser Arthur Dayne. It was not as if Allyria and Arya would ever meet again.

"Yes," Arya whispered. "You remembered all this? I hardly ever spoke of her. I never liked her much."

"Well, I've met Jeyne Poole once."

"You did?" Arya sat up at that point, resting her elbows and folded hands on his chest.

"It's not a nice story, though. When we captured Brienne, she had followed the Hound's trail, believing the child with him was Sansa. I knew she was wrong, that it had to be you, and that at least you had reached Saltpans. But there was no trace beyond that and you might have died there when it was sacked by the Bloody Mummers. We captured Jaime, with Brienne's help, and he informed the Brotherhood that Arya Stark had been married off to Roose Bolton's legitimized bastard son, Ramsay."

"But…" and then she whispered. "I remember something of the sort, but I found it confusing, because we had no other little sister. I sailed for Braavos from the Saltpans. I never married Roose's son."

"I know now of course, but not at the time. It was Jeyne Poole who had been married to Ramsay, after she had been taken prisoner in King's Landing. She was told to pretend to be you, so the Boltons could claim Winterfell."

"That's just… just…" She lifted herself and sat on the bed with her back to him.

"Ramsay was a very sick fuck - think Vargo Hoat. It certainly was not a happy match for Jeyne. The Umbers saved her though and sent her to Castle Black, with everyone still believing she was you. I believed it to be you."

"Is that why you joined the Watch?"

"It was the reason I went there, yes, without the intention to join." He looked at her, and he saw her staring at the glowing fire. He sat up and took her hand. "But then I saw her, and I knew she was someone else, pretending to be you, and then I believed you were truly dead."

Arya turned her head and scowled at him. "Didn't Jon recognize her?"

Gendry cursed himself. Why hadn't he thought this through before telling her about Jeyne Poole pretending to be Arya Stark. "There was an attempt on Jon's life. He lost consciousness before Jeyne ever arrived at Castle Black."

Arya jumped out of bed, her eyes angry and fearful. "What are you saying, Gendry?"

He hung his head down. "When I left to find you, he was still unconscious."

"He might be dead?" she cried, panic sounding through.

"I-I don't know." By the Lord of Light, he never had meant to tell her tonight or like this. He got up to close the distance again between them. "Maybe he regained consciousness again, maybe he sleeps still."

"You made me believe you met him, that he sent you." Her words sounded like a hundred daggers thrown at him.

He closed his eyes and hated himself for hurting her. "I'm sorry, Arya. I didn't know how to tell you, or even what to tell you. I did meet him, in his strange sleep, as well as Ghost who was watching over him. They said… they said, Jon lived in Ghost." He finished his sentence with a mortified whisper.

She went to the fire and turned her back on him, crossing her arms in front of her. "Who sent you?" Her voice was flat and like ice.

"Melisandre, the red priestess, and the Acting Commander. She took care of Jon, made sure he was fed and that Ghost was protected from any harm."

He expected her to ask him about Melisandre, but instead she said, "You were not finished yet with your story about Jeyne Poole."

He sighed, feeling awful. He sat down on the bed and hung his head. "I saw her - she was scared, pitiful, half her nose lost to frostbite. She begged me not to send her back to Ramsay. Melisandre and I promised not to tell anyone who she really was, except I told Jon in his sleep. I visited him every evening to tell about you. But I believed you were dead, and so I made my vows to the Night's Watch. What did I care about marrying and fathering if you were dead. And only after I made my vow of the Night's Watch before the Lord of Light did Melisandre reveal you were alive and ordered me to search for you in Braavos with the Faceless Men." There he had said all to her now.

"So, Jon is dead or in the hands of a red whore, and everyone still believes that Jeyne Poole is me, and probably presume I'm some imposter. Is that what you're telling me?" She turned slowly, her eyes were hard, angry, cold, and yet brimming with tears.

His heart ached for her. But he had no clue how to make this right again. "I don't know, Arya. It's been three years almost since I left the Wall in search for you. You know as much about what is going on at the Wall than I do."

"Go to sleep, Gendry, in that big featherbed you wanted to try out so badly." Her voice was nothing but venom. She turned around again to face the glowing embers.

He watched her, mortified, angry at himself, but also growing more angry with her. He got out of the bed, deliberating whether to return to the damp cot of his, try to comfort her or shake her to make her understand that it was not his fault. _I didn't stab Jon! And I don't know anything about magic. What the hell was I supposed to do?_ It took him four strides to cross the room and whirl her around. He expected to meet her stormy, raging eyes, but only saw the tears streaming from her eyes.

"H-he might be dead too," she hiccupped between her sniffling tears. "Jon might be dead." All the anger in him dissipated immediately, and he pressed her close to him. Arya struggled against his hold, buckled through her knees, clinging to him, as well as beating his chest with her small, but sharp fists, asking him over and over why he hadn't told her before.

"I'm sorry, Arya. I'm so very sorry." But he refused to let her go. If it required him to be her beating dummy for her to get through this, then he was willing to be that rock for her. They sank together to their knees. He held her until she had no strength left anymore and she wept herself into an exhausted sleep.


	20. The Messenger

"Arya!" a voice whispered in the night. The high, sharp trilling of snow shrikes reverberated from the thick pack of undisturbed snow under a moonless night sky. Still, because of the snow the winter world around her was as visible as if there was a full moon out. The air was crisp and the virginal snow crunched under her feet. Ice pinnacles of several meters long hung heavy from the leafless branches of the godswood. Only the heart tree still maintained its red leaves, but its weirwood face rose just above a pile of snow. "Arya," the voice called again. She could swear it almost sounded like Bran. Was it his ghost that had called her here? Was she really here? It felt all so real. Or was it a dream?

The dark black pool glimmered strangely. Arya bent down and discovered it was frozen. Her breath came out like damp. Apart from the snow shrikes Winterfell was deadly quiet. _Or was it?_ A sound was carried from afar, seemingly coming from the keep. Arya recognized the broken tower above the walls surrounding the godswood, but it still stood. The first keep's wall beside it though had collapsed, almost as if something had broken out. Even in the moonless night she could see the inside of the old keep that had been abandoned ages ago were blackened from fire on the inside, but the outer walls that still stood were not. But it was the other way around with the other, more modern buildings, such as the guard's hall that was blackened by fire on the outside, but seemed not to have known any other damage. _Strange_ , she thought. In the other direction the maester's turret was gone from view as was the bridge connecting it to the Bell Tower. All in all, Winterfell seemed not as destroyed as she had feared. From the battlements banners hung frozen in time - Stark banners with a running grey direwolf, on an ice-white field and Baratheon, though they looked unusual. A stag reared on a red field of flames. Those must be Stannis' banners, Arya thought, because he had converted to Rh'llor. She turned towards the gate to the path that would lead past the crypts and found it unlocked.

She treaded past the crypts and snuck past the armory and the guard's hall into the courtyard. She saw no evidence of any life within the walls. The forge of the armoy was burried under snow. Gendry would find that a pity, she thought. The kennels were dead quiet, as were the stables. Oddly enough a steaming, bubbling lake had formed at the bottom of the Library Tower. The kitchens too were empty and looked like some animal had wreaked havoc in it, in order to get to food. She noted traces of tiny feet of rats and mices through the dust. But there definitely was sound coming from the Great Hall. It sounded like a feast almost, but the music was ominous and sad, as if it was a feast for the dead. For a moment she took a step towards the feast.

"Arya!" she heard again. It did sound like Bran. _He's calling me from the crypts_ , she thought. She turned and retraced her steps to the snow, towards the crypts. And though she heard her leather boots creaking in the crusted snow, she could see she did not leave any footprints. _Definitely a dream then._

She pulled at the ancient, heavy, ironwood door that lay slant on the floor. She stepped down into darkness, feeling for the spiralling steps, leaning with her hand against the wall. She felt like Blind Beth again. Just as she made her first turn, she found a torch aflame and she lifted it from its holder to go down the narrow and winding spiral steps, and into large vaulted first floor. She passed the long line of twin granite pillars, the tombs and the carved, fearsome stone Lords of Winterfell, with direwilves curled at their feet and iron longswords in their laps. Past the Kings of the North she strode, lighting one statue after the other, until she found herself staring at the statues of her grandfather Rickard, her uncle Brandon, her aunt Lyanna and the likeness of her father. Neither of those had any swords in their laps. _Again strange_ , she thought. She could swear there used to be iron swords in Brandon's and Rickard's laps. She held the torch closer and she could see traces of rusted iron on Brandon's and Rickard's statue.  _Someone took the swords. Their spirits won't like that._ Next, she gazed into the face of her father's statue. The tomb underneath was unsealed. _His bones have not yet been returned. Poor father._ Arya hunched down to look underneath and held her torch into the empty space of the open tomb. It looked as if some children had played in it or held some kind of picnic there. She could see leftover poultry bones and even what appeared to be shoe footprints. It certainly could not have been an animal. Since when could animal lift a heavy, ironwood door. Mayeb some servants' children had played here. Arya had often played come-into-my-castle and monsters-and-maidens in the crypts with her sister and brothers, but they had been Stark children, unafraid from the dead burried in the crypts. Other children were too afraid to even go near the crypts. Even Sansa had shrugged at Jeyne Poole's and Beth's fears of it. Maybe that was why she used to play so often here, Arya thought. It was the only time, she could play with Sansa without Jeyne's interference.

Arya rose and decided to study Lyanna's statue. _Father said I looked like you and Gendry said I was not just beautiful to him._ And yet when she looked at Lyanna's statue and tried to remember what she saw in the mirror, she thought they did not look alike at all. Lyanna looked so lady like. _I know your secret_ , she thought.

She felt the presence of others in the crypts. For a moment she heard a voice, a soft dying whisper, "Promise me, Ned," like a faint memory.

"I promise," came the quietest and saddest murmur from her father. _The Prince that was Promised_ , thought Arya.

She felt a presence behind. Arya turned around and looked at her brother, Robb. She could only recognize him of his stature and clothing, because his head was that of Grey Wind. "You're supposed to be dead," he said. "You're supposed to be dead. Why aren't you dead?"

 _Well, I'm not! Not today!_ she thought fiercely.

Someone else was coming down the stairs. She could hear the leather scrape of boots on stone, and then later the crunch of soil beneath those boots. Was it Bran? After all, it had been his voice she had heard call her name. He was coming through total darkness and she stretched her arm to light the corridor of the crypts that led back to the exit to see who it was. And into the torch light appeared Jon's frightened face.

He was not the boy anymore that parted ways with her when he gave her Needle. His face was hardened, older, wiser and had grown melachnolically handsome. He looked pale, as if all blood had left him, and surprised and pained. "Arya, not you too," he whispered, horrified and sad. He lifted his hand to touch her face. "What a beautiful woman you grew into, before your end. I wanted to save you."

 _He thinks I'm dead_ , she realized. "I'm alive, Jon. I live." Suspicious, she whispered, "But are _you_ alive?"

The question seemed to puzzle him. "I think I am." Fear flared in his dark grey eyes. He looked behind him and was stepping away from her and his face was filled with grief. "Where is Bran? He called my name."

And suddenly she understood. She snatched his hand. "Jon, I need to tell you something." Jon frowned at her grip and tried to get away from her. "Listen, Jon! Forget about Bran. You need to know."

"What can you ever tell me that's good from the grave? Robb tells me I don't belong here. That I'm not a Stark. Father says the same. Are you here to tell me that as well?"

She was tempted to kick his shins. "I'm not fucking dead, alright!"

But he did not seem to be listening or did not want to hear. "Something's down here, something that frightens me." Then he finally looked at her again, with a lingering smile. "When I saw you, I thought it was your death I feared."

"I know what's down here, or better yet who."

He was looking away again from her, peering in the dark. This time she did kick him against the shins. "Ouch! You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

 _She was sure now that Jon was alive_. "Will you fucking listen to me, Jon! I think that's why I'm down here, to tell you. I know who your mother is." At least she had his attention, now. She pulled him closer by his wrist with a sharp tug and lifted the torch to light Lyanna's face behind her. "Lyanna was your mother, Jon. You are a Stark. Well, half."

He smiled at her and chuckled in that way he thought she was having him on. She stamped on his toe, and he winced in pain. "Goddamn! Will you stop kicking me, Arya."

"I'm not telling you stories. Father is not your father. It was Rhaegar Targaryan. You're not even a bastard. Lyanna and Rhaegar were wed. They loved each other and they wanted you. You are a Targaryan heir, a prince, Jon - a prince that was promised. And if Aegon is only a Blackfyre, you are the true king now, or crown pince, not Daenerys."

He smiled fondly at her. "I always thought it was Sansa who believed in fairy tales."

Arya pressed her lips together and jabbed him on his shoulder, right behind his collar bone. He moaned in pain and grabbed for his shoulder. "It's true, Jon. I've seen the place where Lyanna died and the graves of the Kingsguard. There were three Kingsguard and they fought father to the death to protect the crown prince, you. I-I think Bran called us both down here, for me to tell you."

Jon looked crushed and pitying. "I'm not a prince, Arya, nor a king. I am the watcher on the walls."

Her torch sputtered and the fire went out with a gust of wind. Surprised, she let go of Jon's wrist. "Jon? Jon?!" But there was no answer.

She felt a shock as if she was falling and Arya woke up. She opened her eyes and only the last of the wood was glowing red. It was dark, but she could feel Gendry's warm body against hers and his hand on her head. He was snoring. She sat up carefully, and his hand dropped like a weight on the pelt before the fire. She looked at his face and she remembered what they had been arguing about. She had been angry with him, raging and kicking and pummeling his chest for not telling her about Jon. But all her fury had dissipated. She knew Jon was alive. She was sure of it, even although it had only been a dream. It had been a dream unlike any other she ever had. It had been more like her wolf dreams, except this time she was not inside Nymeria's mind. She had been herself. Well at least, she had told Jon. Whatever he did with it was up to him now – his choice. She leaned over Gendry's face and kissed him lightly on his temple. His breadth halted for a moment and he snorted a few times with his mouth half open, before he returned to his regular snoring. Arya nestled back down, facing Gendry, lifted his hand and put his arm around her, and snuggled her face in the pit of his outstretched arm underneath him.

Arya woke up for a second time with the daylight streaming through the window, when Jhiri pulled the heavy curtains open with a loud thwack. Gendry was gone, out of the room. Jhiri said something in Dothraki, gesturing her head to her bed. She got up. "I'll sleep wherever I want to sleep," she said.

"Gendry?" Jhiri asked with a sly smile.

"None of your business," said Arya. Jhiri hurried over and started to help her get her out of nightgown. Arya shrugged her off. "You don't need to do that. I can dress all on my own, fine."

"Bath?" Jhiri had picked up some words of her language since she traveled with Arya.

"Yes." As Jhiri filled her bath, Rhiki entered the room to start a new fire, and Phiri laid out a few dresses and manwear for her to pick from. She walked over and pointed at the white dress with blue roses embroidered on the bodice. "That one. I'll wear that one today."

She eased into the tub and lay back to relax and think on her dream. Her heart was singing that Jon was alive after all. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the rising sun through the window on her face. And she smiled.

She heard the handmaidens giggle behind her. "Gendry good sex?" That had been Rhiki.

Arya sat up in an instant, eyes wide, mouth open in shock at Rhiki's boldness, making the warm water slosh against the sides, and almost spill over. She grabbed the washing cloth and flung it at Rhiki, who shrieked with laughter. "I said it's none of your business. And no, there was no sex!" When she slid back into the cozy warmth of the water though, she thought, _but I wouldn't mind. It's been a long while._

She did allow Phiri and Rhiki to help her lace her corset and her bodice. Why women wore such damnable restrictive things as a corset was beyond her. But she had to look the part after all. The bodice was not as modest as the evening before, but not as revealing she usually wore. Jhiri turned her so she could see herself in the long mirror, and she was for the first time struck by her appearance. _Yes,_ _I can see the resemblance now._

"Arya, beautiful?" Jhiri asked.

It was a strange question to her, and she combed her wavy, dark hair with her fingers to let the swirls tumble where they fell. "Yes, Arya, beautiful," she said finally, and one corner of her mouth lifted in that of a smile.

Arya went downstairs to the hall to break her fast, and she was aware of many eyes following her and her swaying skirt. She had never expected she would have actually liked this, but she wished that Sansa could see her now. _For once, she would be proud of me._ She noticed Gendry cracking the shell of a boiled egg from afar already, at the table where the rest of her Wolf Pack was eating, though he had his back on her. Asher sat opposite of him and he was staring at her with half open mouth, which prompted Gendry to look behind him. She could see pride and admiration in his blue eyes, but then he dropped his gaze, and turned slowly away from her. She knew he had not been able to see her smile at him encouragingly. _He probably still believes I'm mad at him._

When she neared the table of her men, she decided to halt and inquire after them. The table had bowls of honeyed porridge, pitchers of milk, a basket of boiled eggs and platesof crispy fried fish freshly caught from the Cockleswent.

"Now there's a pretty sight, Princess," said Hugo. "You are truly your father's little girl. I swore I thought I saw your aunt walking in."

"I hope you all slept well?" she asked them with a smile and what she was sure must have sounded like happiness. She felt happy, today.

"Like babes," grinned Black Donnel Flint.

Gendry was hiding his face. _Sometimes, he can really be stupid,_ she thought. "I will ask Lord Ashford to send a raven to King's Landing today, so the dragon queen knows we have arrived safely in Ashford and were received graciously by him, and that we'll be on our way again in another two days. Ser Gendry?" He raised his head, but avoided looking at her. "I would like to talk to you about a certain matter, later. I expect you to meet me at my room after breakfast."

She heard some of her men chuckle and chortle. Big, bearded and bald Morgan Liddle croaked, "You're in for a spanking, captain. You've been naughty!"

Gendry finally met her eyes and she beamed at him. No Nose Ned seated beside him, thumped him against the shoulder, and tittered with laughter. Gendry looked at her with astonishment, but she finally saw the gleam in his eyes return. She could swear she could see a blush appear on him. He looked several years younger all of a sudden. But when Ned Woods shoved him again, Gendry whacked him on the head. "Mind your manners, Ned. I'm eating here." He scraped his throat and met her gaze with as neutral a face he could muster, still his dimples at the corners of his mouth were there. "Of course, M'lady."

When she turned and continued to join Lord Ashford and Edric at the dais, she heard her men break out in laughter and jostle with the benches, cutlery and table. She pretended to be deaf to it. _Well, he did deserve to squirm a little this morning,_ she thought.

Later, she was nervously awaiting the knock on her door, and when it came she jumped from the bed, anxiously stretching her skirt and her bodice. "Yes."

The door opened partly and Gendry edged inside. "M'lady wanted to talk to me?"

"Close the door behind you and lock it." His eyes lit up and a real smile appeared. She knew she should have made him squirm longer than she had, but she felt too elated for it. She turned her back on him and lifted her hair up with one hand. "And help me undo this damn corset. I can't breathe."

He locked the door, and she could hear he was right behind her in three long strides. Her neck tingled when she felt his fingers brush her back to undo her laces. "You're not angry with me anymore?" His voice had dropped to a warm whisper, and she felt his hot breadth sliding along her back. It made the butterflies in her stomach take flight.

"No, I had a dream about Jon last night. I know he lives. I was too harsh on you last night. You never told me it was Jon who sent you. I simply inferred it on my own from your words in Braavos." His rough, big hands slipped under her bodice, to pull the pieces apart. She shivered and closed her eyes, leaning into his hands. Oh, how she had missed his touch. She hadn't even been aware how much she had yearned for it, until he stroked her in that way again, lingering, sensitive, erotic, loving. "The corset," she hissed as she let the bodice drop.

She heard him chuckle. He softly kissed the top vertebrae of her spine. Her head swam. "You are amazing," he whispered.

Arya finally felt as if her lungs could breathe again as the corset loosened around her. She turned around, still clutching on the corset in front of her and looked up into his dazzling blue eyes. They glimmered with love and wonder. "I should have made you feel bad longer than this about not telling me sooner, but… well, I just don't feel like it."

She dropped the corset, and noticed his gaze drop to her breasts, and a sly smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Gods, he was the sexiest man when he smiled like that. She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down and towards her in order to kiss him. She closed her eyes and felt his soft lips brush hers ever so lightly, and teasing. She knew he was grinning. Arya yanked him further down by his shirt and stood on her toes so their lips met full on. She threw her arms around his neck to keep his head bowed to hers, leaned into his broad chest, rising even higher on her toes and opened her mouth to snake her tongue in his mouth. He was still smirking, but when she rolled her tongue, gently, slowly around his, he put his hands around her waist and squeezed her bottom as he pulled her closer to him and let out a gruff groan of pleasure when her lower belly pressed into the bulge of his britches. Before long, Gendry's kiss grew more passionate, stronger, demanding, and he lifted one course hand to her breast, kneading it unhurriedly but firmly. She did not know how long they were standing and kissing – it seemed long – but before long, they clumsily and jointly stepped towards the giant featherbed. He started to kiss her jaw, her neck, grunting, down to her throat, along her collar bone and her breast. He took her full nipple in his mouth, sucked, nipped until it puckered as if she was standing naked in winter's wind. It sent a sensation from her breast, down to her fluttering belly and a warm glow between her thighs. Arya rolled her head and pulled her hands through his black hair, that came loose from the tied lace at the nape of his neck, as he released her nipple and then covered her belly with sweet kisses and his hands unfastened her skirt.

"Lie down," he said in a thick and throaty voice.

She opened her eyes, settled on the bed and opened her legs, and watched him with heavy lidded eyes. Gendry's eyes roved across her body, admiring the sight of her. His eyes looked dazed of feeling and dark burning lust. He was not smiling, and his jaw flexed several times. She knew then he was searching for self control. Arya chewed her lip in anticipation. And the lust in his eyes flared in response. He tore his tunic off and then his shirt and unbuckled his belt. Arya smiled and she brought her finger to her mouth to bite the nail. He had no patience for his britches, and dropped himself on top of her, to suck her tongue into his mouth. She lifted her hips into his arousal still packed in his britches and sighed at the overwhelmingly and momentarily release it gave her hungry mount. Her hands traveled his shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck and reached for the small of his back. His hips pressed into her again, as he devoured her breasts, and she rose to meet his erection again, letting out a high-pitched cry. His hand went around one of her thighs and he lifted her leg, and sucked the blood in her neck to the surface as he rhythmically pushed his crotch onto her mount. She met his grazing laces and the hard bump into the leather with an eagerness like none before. She dug her nails in his back and stiffened her leg muscles, as she cried out her moans with every thrust of his hips to increase the friction and her need was mounting, gathering, spiraling. She was so close. So very close. She sobbed in desperation, thumping her fists on the mattress. It stayed just out of her reach, no matter how much she strained her muscles. And then her orgasm was there all of a sudden, blowing her apart, like a blast, filling her, from her toes to the crown of her head. He must have undone his breeches during her cry of release, because she felt his naked cock thrust into her then and her muscles around him welcomed him with pulls and caresses of her beating orgasm. He called out for the gods, as she squeezed him when he tried to pull out and sank deep into her again. He lay high on top of her, so that his cock almost pointed downward. He pressed on, deep, hard, causing delightful friction on her still throbbing, pleasure soaked mount. Arya was surprised when she realized she was still close enough to the edge to reach it for a second time.

Gendry grunted through his teeth with every downward stroke and jab and thrust he buried into her, faster, rougher, deeper, over and over, again and again, while she lifted her hips to rub her mount against the root of his cock when he rose. She felt his hand squeeze her thigh as he barely managed to mumble, "I. can't. Oh. Gods."

But she was there, again, panting, arching, rigid, clamping and shouting, urging him on in approval, as wave after wave engulfed her. He thrust one more time and groaned with a long shudder. Finally, he sank on top of her with a deep exhale, sweaty, glowing, limp. Arya held her to him, enjoying the afterglow, tensing and relaxing, and he trembled inside and on top of her. He turned his head and met her gaze, speechless and out of breadth, while he remained sheathed inside her. Her grey eyes smiled at his blue ones, content, and his own eyes were so full of marvel and love. She felt the tip of his cock quiver. Arya grinned up at him and squeezed her muscles around him slightly in response. Gendry chortled and buried his face in her neck again. They repeated the subtle, and silent greeting movement in their joining a few more times, before he left her, turned and lay beside her sprawled on the mattress.

"That was interesting," he said, blowing loose black hairs out of his face.

She laughed and kicked the heel of her foot on the mattress. Gendry took her hand in his, intertwining their fingers and clasping. She turned her head and looked at him. He twisted his head to look at her, a contented dimpled grin plastered on his face. He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed hers. She wished she could always feel this happy, with him. And for a moment she wondered what it would be like if they were husband and wife right now and she would allow his seed to plant a baby in her. To her very own surprise, the idea gave the butterflies in her stomach flight. Perhaps a part of her would not mind at all.

Gendry grabbed one of the pillows, rolled on his side to her, and stuffed it under his head. Only then she became aware of the fact he still wore his unlaced britches half down his waist. "Come here," Gendry said, pulling her hand.

She edged closer to him, while he lifted the feathered down and covered her with it. He reached for the other pillow with his free hand and pulled it to her head. She lifted her head and then let it sink in the pillow. "So, does a featherbed meet with your approval, Ser?"

His eyes roamed the ceiling and room, and his smile turned sheepish. "It does, very much. Best bed I every lay in."

Arya did not know why she blurted it out, but she did anyway, "I want to be wed."

Gendry's head spun sharply back towards her. His eyes were widened in shock."You do?"

She nodded, certain of it. "Hmmm. Yes."

He lifted his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. "Well, we have done the bedded part at least."

"And I want a baby." _Yes, I want a baby - a little black haired baby with blue eyes and dimples._

He dragged his hand through his hair and huffed. "That'll be a lot of vows I'll be breaking, Arya."

She snuggled up close to him and kissed the soft, downy hair on his chest. He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. "We'll find a way, Gendry. They made you think I was dead. The red whore made you believe it."

"She's not a whore, Arya," he whispered.

"She is in my book. Had she told you beforehand that I was in Braavos, you would never have made that vow."

"I still made that vow, nonetheless." Arya saw his lips move, as he stared at the ceiling, and heard his words like a dark, ominous whisper. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

Arya closed her eyes. There was nothing in it about bedding, but marrying and making a baby with her would no doubt get him killed. They would hang him, or chop off his head. Could she do that to him? Would Jon do that to her? She recalled her dream and his reaction when she told him about his true parents and how he was the true heir of the Iron Throne. He denied being a king and had affirmed he was the watcher on the wall. If Jon chose his vows over the Iron Throne, would he allow Gendry to marry her? She doubted it very much. While she pondered these questions, she remembered a young man she killed once in Braavos, when she had only been shortly welcomed into the guild. _Dareon, that was his name._ He had been a black brother of the watch, together with a fat one and an old, dying man. She had saved the fat one from some stupid, drunken bravos looking for an easy fight. He had been looking for this Dareon, who was supposed to gather money by singing in the inns to help the old dying man and to pay for passage on a ship to Oldtown. But Dareon had donned colorful silk and married the Sailor's Wife to have a night with the woman, and deserted the Night's Watch, leaving the other two to their fate. _I killed him for desertion and breaking his vows._ _And the kindly man gave me the milk to become blind Beth. Can I then ask this of Gendry, of Jon?_

Her No One whispered, _his mission is to get you to the wall, whatever the cost, and I must go there too. But you can always tell him that wedding him is the condition on which you go to the wall._ It was a tempting idea, very tempting, but it would be a deception. Arya lifted her head to say something to Gendry, but discovered he was sound asleep. She edged closer and made herself comfortable in the pit of his arm. _There must be a way. And I will find a way._ She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep as well, filled with dreams of the large she wolf and her mate looking for an appropriate den. But food was getting scarce and the snow thick. _I'm south, Nymeria_ , she said. _There's no snow south of King's Landing, yet._ Nymeria turned her head, her ears perking up, and howled, calling her mate. She would go where there was no snow – to her human.


	21. Dead Man Walking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rarely end with a cliffhanger, but this is definitely one... Be prepared for a jump in time and distance and everything has gone wrong, very very wrong.

It was abysmally dark in his small cell that reeked putrid and rank of decay, piss and shit. He tried to defecate and water in the farthest corner of his cell, but well that was barely a few feet away of him and there was no window to allow for fresh air. They had closed the wooden door hours ago, and he had not seen any daylight anymore since, or many days prior to it. _The night is dark and full of terrors_. Only this morning Gendry had been dragged into the daylight for his trial and his eyes had gone blurry with water and squinting against the light and gulping at the fresh air.

"So, how did your trial, go?" That was Jaime's whisper in the next dark cell. He somehow had found something to scrape mortar away from a loose brick of the wall between them and had pulled it out, and since then at least they held each other company in the dark by talking. _Voices in the dark_ , Jaime called it.

"I'm to be beheaded, tomorrow morning." He had been leaning against the wall, but now he slid down and hunched on his heels, with his arms resting on his knees and his head hanging down.

"You should demand the jailor for a wineskin of Arbor or summerwine and share it with me, like the good old days on _Winter Heart_ , huh." Even though Gendry was full of fear and anger and desperation, Jaime managed to make him chuckle nonetheless. "What?" quipped Jaime. "You're a dead man walking. Don't you know anyone sentenced to death has a right to a last wish, before going?"

"I wouldn't mind getting drunk."

"As long as the one bringing down the sword tomorrow morning isn't drunk - ugly business that. At least we could always count on Ilyn Payne being sober." He heard Jaime shuffle. He probably changed his position. "So, did Arya show up on your trial?"

Gendry closed his eyes and had to fight the tears. He shook his head, only then to remember that Jaime could not see that. He croaked, "No." Everything had failed. All of Arya's plan had failed. Eventually one of her bold plans was bound to fail. He wondered whether Arya was somewhere in one of these black cells as well.

Jaime's fingers of his one hand appeared through the hole where the brick used to be. If you sat here long enough, you could actually see some things in the dark. He let his hand fall and squeezed Jaime's fingers. Jaime had never come across as a comforter to him, but they only had each other in the dark for a long time already. It could be four days, a week or ten days. Judging by hte current state of his beard, Gendry supposed it was about a week.

"Don't worry, Gendry. She's alive. She made a good deal with the dragon queen. Daenerys needs her to reason with Rickon and bring the North back to the fold. If she locks Arya up or keeps her as a hostage, Danaerys will get fuck shit from the North."

It had been a mighty show down between those two women in the throne room, the day they had arrived and were welcomed in the Red Keep.

"Queen Daenerys Targaryen Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Mereen, Princess of Dragonstone, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains and Slayer of Lies," the head of her Dragon Guards had shouted, when the silver haired queen entered the great hall to drape her small stature on the Iron Throne.

The queen wore a blue chiffon dress, surrounded by dragon skulls, Queen's Guard, her Council and dragon guards in boiled leather with lances. She was indeed beautiful as he had heard say, with big purple but hard eyes, silver heir, fully curved, and a face of stone as hard as marble. There was no doubt she was Targaryen, while Jon Snow looked as Stark as a Stark could look like, going by Arya's looks. He could see a resemblance of features with Edric Dayne, and he wondered whether the first Daynes may have originated from Valyria thousands of years before the Targaryens.

Hugo Wull behind him grumbled, "People who need that many titles to affirm their power must have little faith in themselves. Who cares about Mereen and Dothraki grasslands around here anyway."

Gendry thought Hugo Wull might have had a point as he admired Arya standing in front of the throne, wearing boots, britches and a new red dress, as well as a white fur lined cloak with a direwolf sown on it by one of her handmaidens. She had never cared for titles at all. If she insisted on people addressing her as princess it was only to emphasize that the North considered itself independent and that she was a Stark.

Asher whispered with an unrevealing face to him, "Perhaps we should introduce our princess as Princess of the North, Arya Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Mother of Wolves, Slayer of Dark Stars?"

Gendry had to suppress a chuckle and finished for Asher in his mind – _Dark Heart Assassin of Braavos, Thrower of Crab Apples, Mistress of Acorns, Wielder of Needle, and my Queen of Love and Beauty._

Daenerys attempted to be dismissive of Arya. "So, you are one of the usurper's daughters."

"I am a Princess of the North, Arya Stark, yes, youngest daughter of the late Lord Eddard Stark who rebelled against King Aerys after the king demanded his foster father Jon Arryn to behead him for being nothing but the son of Lord Rickard Stark who was burned alive without a trial by King Aerys, because his heir Brandon Stark wished to retrieve Lady Lyanna Stark who had been allegedly kidnapped by the crown prince Rhaegar. If usurper means that he has no right to fight for his life, solely for existing, then yes, my father was a usurper and I am a usurper's daughter."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at Arya and sat up straight. "What do you seek in King's Landing?"

"I have lived as a refugee in Braavos, Your Grace, after Cersei's children of incest took the throne and beheaded my father for wanting to reveal her deception. I wish to return home and help my younger brother, King in the North Rickon Stark, to gain back Winterfell, which has been our home since the Age of Heroes. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell, Your Grace."

"Queen Cersei was wise to protect her children from a man involved in child slaying," Daenerys snided.

"My father never condoned the murder of Elia Martell and her children, Your Grace, and expected King Robert to punish the culprit for it - Tywin Lannister's man the Mountain Gregor Clegane." Arya smiled, though her eyes did not. "I had thought you would have been better informed about these events regarding your family, Your Grace." One could hear a needle drop in the throne room then, and it was as if Arya had grown taller and towered over the Iron Throne.

Queen Daenerys ignored Arya's jab on history, and said, "What do I care for the state of the North or a Stark being needed in Winterfell? Your father usurped my father's throne. He was a traitor and he died a traitor. You should bow and bend the knee before me, like your sister has done if you wish anything of me. Otherwise you are no better than your father, you and your army of hundred and ten."

That last remark made the court laugh. Gendry had cringed at those words, sure that Arya would be fuming. But somehow, Arya did no such thing. "I would think a queen who lived in exile for so many years and lived on account of the begging of her brother - and who is not to blame for the madness of her father - would not blame the children of her enemies when they were born long after the rebellion. Both myself and Rickon survived the horrors of war and lived in exile just as well." Daenerys violet eyes lit with wildfire. "I have no interest in denying your rightful seat on the Iron Throne, Your Grace. You are queen by right of conquest. But my brother Rickon is King in the North and I, as Princess in the North, cannot bend the knee for him without consulting him. If you wish to include the North into your kingdom, you will either have to conquer it, or oblige me so I can put in a good word for you."

"Then I shall have to conquer it. I'll send a dragon rider and a Dothraki army to the North."

Arya smiled. "Your Grace, you know as well as I do that the Dothraki hate snow. Rogo was not even keen to go beyond Grassy Vale. What good is a dragon if there is no army behind it to rape and reave and sack the remains and the people as your Grace has done with so much success in Dorne and the Reach? It's such a pity that the Water Gardens were destroyed – a garden with nothing but innocent children of all classes put to death as they played in the water. Are you so keen to be Queen Daenerys of seven barren, lifeless kingdoms?"

The ladies and lords at court gasped. A highborn lady, heavy with child, standing near the throne with black, waving hair in ringlets had started to weep then. Edric whispered to him that was Princess Arianne Martell. The woman hastily retreated out of the throne room, her skirts in hand. The man who had stood beside Arianne must have been Aegon, for he had the silver blonde hair and blue violet eyes of the Targaryens and had a sour face and was glowering in general. Not that Gendry could have blamed him at the time - if he was truly Rhaegar's son, his own aunt had usurped his place. But at least, Gendry had supposed the man would try to console his wife after the retelling of the destruction in Dorne. The atmosphere in the throne room had changed. While before it had been filled with sycophants who were too afraid to say anything, the court had turned tangibly nervous and there were angry mutterings. All it took to make the dragon queen shrink was a dark haired she-wolf younger, no taller than the queen.

"Let us not quarrel about the past, your Grace," said Arya sweetly. "What is done cannot be undone. If King Robert's rebellion had turned out differently you and I might have been family. After all the crown prince Rhaegar loved my aunt and died with her name on his lips." Arya smiled, but her grey eyes were icy. "They tell me I look like her, and have her spirit." She gestured to the singer in the corner that Gendry had not yet seen – by the Lord of Light, it was Tom Sevenstrings. "Perhaps your singer can sing us a sweet song about Fire and Ice." Daenerys had cringed and blinked at that. "And to show you that I come in good faith, I will surrender one of my _army_ for a trial – the Kingslayer."

The Imp who sat on a council seat near the Iron Throne had been eyeing Jaime for a while already. Jaime's dwarf brother looked angry and his green and dark eye twinkled demonically as he was whispering to a King's Guard. Jaime had been standing several rows behind them, all shiny, in a white cloak of a King' Guard, golden spurs and all. His beard had been shaven and his hair neatly done. He almost looked shiny and new again, except for the golden hand. But when he joined Arya's side on her signal the court was in uproar. Those who had recognized him had not expected neither Arya, nor Jaime to give him up to the Queen. Gendry craned his neck to watch Brienne behind him. Her face was like stone, and she stood like a statue, but he saw the glistening of wetness gathering in her eyes.

Quite visibly flabbergasted, Queen Daenerys had stared at the Kingslayer and needed a few moments to come up with words. "I-I thank you, Princess Arya Stark."

"I will only surrender him for a fair trial," said Arya, "so that actual justice can prevail."

The dragon queen had looked hungrily at the bait. "Yes, you have my word, Princess Arya. And please accept my hospitality. I will have rooms readied at the Maidenvault for you and your retinue. I invite you to dine with me tonight, so that we can discuss what can be done for the North." Arya's plan had seemed to work, exactly as she had wanted it. Gendry had been settled in a room near Arya's per her request. However, while she dined with the queen in her personal quarters, an arrest team had shown up at his door, accusing him of being a wanted outlaw by Lord Walder Frey, High Lord of the Riverlands, and a deserter of the Night's Watch.

They could hear a door open and footsteps coming their way. Jaime put the loosened brick back where it was supposed to be. The footsteps halted at their cells. Was it someone for Jaime or himself? Gendry's door opened and a fat man with warts and heavy roughspun robe holding a torch entered. "Ser Gendry Baratheon," the stranger in a thin voice, sharp as a whip, said.

Gendry looked up at the man. "What do you want of me? Do I know you?" he said gruff.

The stranger came closer and held the torch closer to look at his face. "My, my, the resemblance is really too uncanny. Even the voice. And now that you have a beard."

"Leave me alone and in peace," Gendry barked, looking away from the torch. He was not some freak show to be admired. "I never cared who my father was. Queen Danaerys only legitimized me so she can finally execute a Baratheon."

"A great pity, Ser Gendry." The man hunched down beside him. "It was I who alerted your master to get you out of King's Landing and sent you on your way with Joren to the Wall. Of course it was with the hope you would never return."

Gendry narrowed his eyes at the man. "Who are you?"

"They call me the spider, the master of whisperers. I am also known as Varys," said the man dressed as a goaler. Gendry had heard of that name before. It seemed like another life back then. _Seven hells, it was another life._ "So, why did you come back, Ser Gendry?"

He leaned his head back against the wall. "Because that's the road Princess Arya chose."

"Bu you came from the south, from Dorne. The Wall isn't in Dorne. Did the Night's Watch send you to Dorne?"

"None of your business, spider."

"Maybe this will help." Varys took out a wineskin from under his robe. "I heard you love drinking, another trait you share with your father." Gendry glanced at the wineskin out of the corner of his eye and he licked his lips. He could use a drink and hell if this Varys left it behind he could share it with Jaime. "I brought another one for your neighbor, the Kingslayer."

Jaime chuckled. "You sly old bastard! So, even here you have little birds working for you."

Varys tittered in response. "Did you never wonder why I had you put in these neighboring cells with a loose brick?"

Jaime laughed at that, and removed the brick. "Pass me the wineskin, Gendry."

This was ill news. So, this master of spies knew why Arya had voluntarily surrendered Jaime to Queen Daenerys. Was that why they had arrested him for being a wanted outlaw of the Riverlands? Who the bloody hell would even have known that Lem Lemoncloak ended up being alive, completely with yellow cloak, Hound helmet and broken nose? Or rather that Lem was actually Ser Richard Lonmouth.

Lem had been his only visitor in these dark cells, apart from Varys. Initially he thought Lem was offering to help him, but Gendry could not have been more wrong. Lem said that his real name was Ser Richard Lonmouth, who had been a personal close friend of Queen Daenerys' late brother Rhaegar, and that along with many other close friends of Rhaegar, including King's Guard Arthur Dayne and Oswald Whent, they had attempted to set up a council to have the Mad King abdicated, on account of his paranoia. But King Aerys' sycophants had caught wind of Rhaegar's plans and pitted son and father against each other. And then Rhaegar disappeared from the Riverlands with Lyanna Stark, without informing him. When Robert rebelled though Richard had joined him, expecting Rhaegar to reappear on Robert's side. But at the battle of the Trident, Robert had slain Rhaegar, and Richard himself had been wounded and left for dead in the bloodied Trident. He was fished out of the river, a broken man at the Quiet Isle, along with Rhaegar's rubies and brought back to health. He had remained in the Riverlands under the name Lem Lemoncloak. But after the massacre of the Brotherhood, he fled Westeros and joined the forces of Queen Daenerys, after hearing how she had tried to end slavery.

"The things you hear in a black cell," Jaime had said afterwards who had listened to Lem's story in deadly quietness.

Gendry cared little about Lem being Ser Richard Lonmouth, or having been Rhaegar's friend. It mattered little, until Lem said, "It was I who informed on the Queen that you were an outlaw of the Brotherhood without Banners."

"What? Why?"

Lem had whispered through the prison hatch, "Because you betrayed the Brotherhood to the Freys and Lannisters after Jaime was captured. How convenient that you just happened to disappear when they burned the Orphan's inn and now reappear in the company of Jaime and Brienne again, pretending to be a man of the Night's Watch. Seems like you deserted the Wall too for the princess. You're just like your father, drooling after the she-wolf. History repeating itself, hmmm?" Lord of Light, everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. "I warned you that day that you would be just an outlaw, would end up being hanged and there wouldn't be any wedding a princess. Queen Daenerys needs the Twins as a barrier between her kingdom and the North. The Freys helped her in preventing Stannis Baratheon to cross, and so she will have any publically accused outlaw executed for them."

It was a good thing that there had been a door between Lem and himself, or he would have throttled the man with his bare hands. "And the queen doesn't know you and Tom were members of the Brotherhood much longer than I ever was?" he had growled.

"Oh, she does," sneered Lem. "But nobody will accuse her commander of her Dragon Company, or her personal singer. She does not really care about the Brotherhood. But she can't have Lord Walder Frey know this."

Well, Queen Danaerys had no interest in recognizing his royal blood, not until he was arrested and she was sure she had enough witnesses to have him tried and found guilty for being an outlaw and helping to hang Freys. The trial had been a mockery. All sorts of people pointed him out as a wanted man, claiming he had lured this Frey into a trap, and that Frey, though he had never seen any of them. And neither Lem nor Tom had shown their face on his trial that morning. And of course, he could not choose to be pardoned and be sent to the Wall, as he already was a brother of the Night's Watch. He had not denied being an outlaw, but he had denied to have been a deserter from the wall.

Gendry opened the wineskin that Varys handed him and took a swallow. He squinted at the dark, strong taste of the Dornish strongwine. Varys tapped him on the shoulder as he rose. "I'll give Tobho Mott your regards then. It's a pity he's too old and sickly these days to forge Valeryan steel himself. But nothing can be done about that, I guess. Unless you're willing to tell my why the reforging of Ice is so important, that Arya Stark was willing to give up Jaime Lannister."

Gendry cursed, and Jaime said, "You'll have to try and find that out with your little birds, Varys. We're bound to secrecy."

"Hmmm, I can always insist with Daenerys to use torture."

Jaime sneered. "We ain't telling you anything. Gendry's already sentenced and I don't care for my life."

"Enjoy the wine then, Sers. I wish you well, Ser Gendry, when you'll meet your Lord of Light on the morrow."

Varys and the torch left his cell. The door was closed behind him and he swore and cursed and was so much enraged that he felt like he could hammer down a wall. He banged his fists against the wall until they were bloodied. "Why did she give you up, Jaime?" he asked finally. "I know you proposed it, but Arya was unwilling until the last, until the very morning we arrived. What the hell did you tell her to make her change her mind?"

He heard Jaime take several swallows of his wine bag. "I told her it was I who threw her brother Bran from the tower in Winterfell that he had climbed, and crippled him for life."

"Why the bloody hell did you do that for? For fuck's sake, why even confess something like that to her?"

"Bran caught Cersei and me fucking, while your father was out hunting with honorable Ned Stark at Winterfell. Couldn't have a boy telling people what he saw, did I? So, I did it for love." Gendry banged his head against the wall behind him. "I told you that both love and war can make a man do the best or the worst. My love for Cersei made me do the worst. And I told Arya this because I needed Queen Danaerys to be occupied with her trial for me to be found guilty for killing her father, so you could reforge Ice. Varys or Tyrion would have found out that I was part of Arya's Pack anyway. It was too dangerous for her to try and keep me concealed. I just didn't count on you getting bloody well arrested, did I?" Jaime chuckled. "Don't worry, perhaps Arya has a plan to save you tomorrow."

"Oh, shut up!" And though he felt like crying, the Dornish strongwine had gone well to his head, and he started to laugh in his misery.

Before long, Jaime and him were laughing tears so hard the goalar - who was not Varys - came to have a peek at them and told them to be quiet or they would rue the day they were born. That only made both of them laugh even harder. At least the strongwine on an empty stomach had made him so drunk he actually fell asleep, full of dreams about Arya and the time they spent on the road after Ashford to Grassy Vale, having their Dothraki tent all for themselves every night. It had been the best time of his life – carefree loving. They even rode double on Black most of the time, because the pace of a thousand Dothraki was slow enough for that.

The last night had been magical. He remembered every detail of it. It was at Kingswood, only a day's ride away from King's Landing. She had invited him to walk with her in the woods. He had said it seemed unsafe to have a night walk in woods, after the people of Grassy Vale had warned them against the many wolves roaming Kingswood the past year.

She had smiled to him, "The wolves will not harm us, just as they didn't in the Riverlands." She had been so confident and her eyes had appeared so other worldly to him, as if she was in some sort of dream. "We have friends amongst them, Gendry. Please trust me."

In the end, he had followed her into the snow, beyond the safety of fires, tents and horses into the cold night. When they breathed the air came out like a haze. She wore her thick woolen white cloak - with a direwolf sigil embroidered on it by Jhiri and lined with ermine fur - closely about her, with only her hand sticking out to hold his. He had been in his black shirt, thick woolen tunic and wolf fur cloak, following her. The only sound was the crunching of snow or snapping twigs and branches beneath his feet, but not hers.

She had smiled at him and said, "You still haven't learned to walk silently, after all these years, and you living in the woods with the Brotherhood for so long?"

"Where are we going?" he whispered. In the snowy, silent woods even his normal tone of voice seemed to carry far.

"You'll see, Gendry."

When he looked behind him, he could not even see the camp anymore. They had come across a round clearing. She turned to face him, stood on her toes, put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her for a kiss. He obliged her, and wrapped his arms around her cloak, but looked about himself warily. "Let's go back. You had your walk."

But she put her hand on the back of his head and kissed him with open mouth, her tongue rolling slowly, languidly in the way she knew it drove him wild. It was impossible to resist such a kiss of hers. He kissed her in the same way, his hand cupping her chin, lips smacking, rolling left and right, his tongue touching and tasting hers, closing his eyes, and the start of his erection. His mouth went from her lips to her jawline and to her neck as she laid her head back in a sigh.

"Undo your fur cloak," she mumbled.

"It's cold," he whispered.

"Please, Gendry."

He sighed, and unfastened his cloak and laid it across her shoulders, while he searched for her lips again. But she broke the kiss and laid his cloak out on the snow. He wanted to protest, but she had already climbed on it, and sat on her knees and hands. "What are you doing, Arya?" he whispered louder, looking around apprehensively. She lifted her cloak and revealed her legs were naked underneath her cloak. "Are you naked under that cloak?" he had asked alarmed.

"Yes."

"Are you crazy?" And yet his erection was straining against his britches at the idea alone.

She laughed. "No, but I'm cold now, and I need you to warm me up."

He thought she was playing games with him, but then he looked around in the dark. There was nothing but snow, trees and darkness. He licked his lips and fell down on his knees and slipped his hand underneath her cloak to feel for himself whether she had spoken truth. She gasped when his cold hands trailed her naked calf, felt her knees and then her warm thighs. His hand was trailing her thigh up and he widened his eyes when his hand stroked her bare silken cheeks of her ass. "You _are_ naked. You're going to freeze here."

"Keep me warm, Gendry."

A part of him wanted to lift her up, waddle her in his fur cloak and carry her back to the encampment that very instant, but his cock had totally different ideas. "You want me to... you know... here? Like this?"

"Oh, please, yes, Gendry." She was panting, the vapor escaping rapidly into the frosty air, and her voice needy.

Still half shocked, he could not resist exploring her a little bit more with his fingers. He slid them between her thighs in search for the warmth of her opening and her little button beyond it. Her thighs clenched instantly. And she yelped at his touch. It was thick, hard, swollen and throbbing, and warm. He had never known her to be that ready before. He could not resist it, and began to rub and press her flower. She cried and sobbed and pushed her hips upwards.

"Take me, I need you now," she said hoarse. "Help me."

It was too much. Gendry had no need of any more encouragement by then. Something feral had taken control over him. He pulled his swordbelt loose with one tug, and was already on his knees behind her, yanking at his own laces, and freeing his thick, swollen cock in the freezing air, lifting her cloak rapidly and searching for her entrance in order to be warm himself again. And when he entered it was warm, wet, velvety bliss. He grunted surprised at how her muscles strained and rubbed him differently than they did otherwise. And Arya, she exclaimed in joy, panting and moaning, as he began to pump in and out, while he braced her hips and moved them towards him as he thrust. He lifted her cloak up to her waist to see his cock sliding in and out, wet and glistening with her juices. And then all control was gone. He leaned over her with a growl in search of her mouth and tongue, stretching her neck to meet his hungry mouth. The kiss was untamed, ardent, ravenous, as he shoved hard into her, wanting all of her, pumping deep, rough, his balls slapping into the cheeks of her ass, thrust after thrust, grunting and groaning, at a constant rapid rhythm. She backed to meet him as he dove in. She yelped, she cried, she gasped, she laughed. It was ferocious, animal. He had to let go of her mouth, pressing his forehead in her neck, as he lunged into her, over and over, again and again, gritting his teeth and snarling while he clenched his hips and ass, searching with his fingers for her hard pearl, rubbing it rapidly so she could come with him.

"Come!" she cried and he felt her muscles tighten and stiffen, clenching and squeezing.

"Gods," he grimaced and strained. And then he detonated, bursting inside of her, as she sobbed his name. His seed blasted out of his balls, rushed through, spurted and filled her. He was blown apart, in his mind, in his chest. The blast rushed through his stomach and legs down to his toes. He could not help it, but he collapsed onto her, taking her down with him, exhausted, panting, and compressed her body underneath him into his fur cloak, his forehead against hers. The vapor of their breaths intertwined. He had no idea where he was or when, only inside and on top her, resting.

She lay underneath him with a satisfied smile, catching her breadth and murmured, "Now, I'm warm."

He could not get up if he wanted to, not yet, not by a long shot. All he could do was lift some weight off of her and pull his fur cloak around her. He had no idea how long they lay likes this, but eventually the frost caught up with them, and he felt her shiver underneath him.

"Let's get you back to a warm tent," he grumbled hoarse and kissed her temple. He did not want to get up, but he knew he had too. If he was cold, surely she must have been freezing. He lifted his hips to slip out and his frozen fingers searched for his laces to tie them again.

Gendry helped her stand up, and pulled her cloak tight around her, picked his own and spread it across her shoulders, when she said, "Look, it's Nymeria and her mate."

He followed her gaze and at the rim of the clearing two giant direwolves were watching them, their eyes glistening spookily in the night. They were the biggest wolves he had ever seen. One was grey with golden firelights for eyes. The other black as night with green eyes. He felt apprehensive and stiffened, putting his arms around her waist trying to make her slowly move away from them. "You don't know that, Arya. It could be any wolf. We should get away, slowly, back to the camp before the rest of the pack shows up." Fuck, he was the only one with a sword.

"I do know who they are," she said. "I told her to come south to den and have her litter."

He frowned. "What do you mean, you told her?"

"I told her in a warg dream."

"A what?" He had never heard of the word warg.

All the while she had her eyes on the grey wolf, smiling, but she looked back at him again and kissed him. "A skinchanger dream. I can enter her mind, see through her eyes, hear through her ears. The black one is her mate since we arrived at Nightsong. They coupled and she is going to have his pups. But there was too much snow and too little food, aside from Freys. So, I told her to look for me south. And last night I dreamt she was in Kingswood."

His jaw had dropped, trying to comprehend what she was telling him – skinchangers were people with magical powers that could travel in animals. They only existed in children stories, the type to frighten children late at night at the flames of the hearth. Now she was telling him she was such a skinchanger.

"Don't you think her mate looks like you? He's handsome, big and powerful, and has a black coat." And before he could say anything, she stepped away from him towards the wolves that had not moved yet.

"Arya," he hissed. "Don't." But she was not listening to him. Instead she went down on her hunches and held out her hand. Nymeria got up and entered the clearing cautiously, and her mate followed her from a distance, even more warily. He hissed her name again, and the hairs in his neck stood upright from fright. But she was not listening to him.

"Come, Nymeria, it's me," she said in a soft, high pitched voice. "I won't throw any rocks at you this time."

He saw no other way to protect her, but by taking a step towards her and unsheathe his broadsword. Nymeria stopped in her tracks and her eyes went from Arya to him. And the black direwolf snarled lowly, showing his teeth.

"Put it away, Gendry." And then to Nymeria she said again in that soft voice. "He's my mate, Nymeria, my wolf. You saw us mate. He won't hurt you or me or your mate."

Nymeria looked at Arya again, lowering her head, while she crawled forward on all fours, and whimpered like a pup. Gendry stared wide-eyed in shock as he saw Arya open her arms and Nymeria bouncing up into her embrace, licking and yipping. Arya giggled and buried her head in her fur, tears streaming. And though he did not know wolf language, he had the distinct impression that Nymeria's mate was as confused and amazed as him, cocking his upright ears left and right, sitting upright and eyeing the scene.

"I'm so sorry, Nymeria, that I had to chase you away. But it was for your own good. They would have killed you for protecting me against Joffrey. Now you have your own pack and mate. And I do too. You took care of the Riverlands, and the Freys. You can build a home, here, while I go North, and watch my enemies here." Arya sniveled through her tears. "M-Maybe when it's spring we can meet again, North."

Nymeria whined and Lord of Light, Gendry thought her eyes were sad. Arya gave her one, last tight hug, and whispered, "I love you, Nymeria." She rose, wiping at her streaming tears, and stepped away from Nymeria. The direwolf took a step towards her. But Arya held her hand out to stop her. "No, Nymeria, go be with your mate. He loves you too, and you will have babies soon." Nymeria sat down and watched her retreat and then got up, turned around and joined her black direwolf. Arya lifted her head, sobbing, and held her hand out to Gendry. "Please, let's go back, Gendry," and then she chuckled through her tears. "I'm freezing." He walked with her, without awareness of the cold, still baffled about what he had just witnessed, when she giggled, "That was the first time she listened to me. I used to have a hard time training her and do tricks."

His dreams of his last night before his execution, were filled with reliving that animal like mating with Arya, and Nymeria and her mate guarding them. He was sleeping so soundly that he needed to be kicked awake by the jailor. He did not want to wake up from his happy dreams.

But the jailor dragged him up together with two dragon guards. "C'mon big fellow, time for your beheading. There's a big crowd waiting for you already. They might even name a mummer's play after you one day."

All he could think of was Arya, and how grateful he was that Melisandre and the Lord of Light had given him his chance to be with Arya, if it only was but a short while. The only thing he truly regretted was that he had insisted with Arya for her to keep on drinking moon tea as long as they were not wed. With the hour of his death so near, he lamented he had not left her with a baby as a reminder of him, even if the child would have been a bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested of Lem Lemoncloak == Richard Lonmouth, former squire and friend of Rhaegar and drinking buddy of Robert during Harrenhall tourney... Here's a link to the theory for it: https://ladygwynhyfvar.wordpress.com/2014/02/03/lemuncloaked-the-true-identity-of-lem-lemoncloak/


	22. The Maiden

At the private dinner, Queen Daenerys had agreed to discuss Arya's proposal regarding the North with her complete Small Council, but said that one of her council was not in King's Landing yet. It had been a very awkward and mostly silent dinner at the beginning while they spooned their creamy chestnut soup, with smoked duck, cubes of goat cheese and croutons. It was velvety luxury to warm yourself on a cold, winter evening. The dragon queen was neither an actress nor up for social niceties. She did inquire after Rakharo, calling him her blood of my blood fondly, to which Arya had cryptically said that Rakharo was in search of a Westeros wife and Arya had little desire to talk about him. The only one present at the dinner who made conversation easier was dark skinned and golden eyed Missandei.

"It was believed you already were in the North, at the Wall," the young woman said. "Although I know your elder sister, Lady Sansa Stark, asked the Night's Watch to send you to the Vale, under her protection."

Arya shook her head as she cracked the clay with a spoon of the second course, and steam rose through the cracks and filled Arya's nostrils with the smell of perfectly cooked trout. "The Arya Stark at the Wall is the steward's daughter. She was instructed to pretend to be me to fool the North and usurp my ancestral home." As she removed the remainder of the clay, the trout was wrapped in burdock leaves. The flesh flaked off the bones like it was nothing. She heaped it onto her knife and licked it off the blade. It tasted creamy and tender, as well as fresh because of the lemon slices, sage and tarragon inside the cleaned trout. On the side lay a salad of sweetgrass, lettuce, baby spinach, purslane, rings of green onions and leek, and diced plums sprinkled with raspberry vinegar and a mix of herbs like parsley, sage, rosemary, scallion, a bit of bite with the mint and garlic, and added crunch with crushed nuts. Queen Daenerys' cook was phenomenal.

Arya said so, which made Daenerys smile with pride. "You should taste his bread," the queen said as she sipped from her glass of plum wine.

Missandei then inquired how she then managed to escape King's Landing and then disappear. Arya explained in a rough version that she had help of those loyal to her father and the North and her own sword to escape the Red Keep as well as King's Landing disguised as a boy, but no further than the Riverlands. There she fell in enemy's hands who knew not who she was while she pretended to be a commoner child, until she managed to escape and was captured by Sandor Clegane who wished to sell her to her family. But the Freys had killed them all and Sandor had died near Saltpans, where she boarded a ship to Braavos.

Queen Daenerys had listened to her and then asked, "And how did you survive in Braavos?"

"I begged, I sold clams, I waited tables, I acted in a mummer's troupe and I was a personal handmaiden of a courtesan, until I learned of my younger brother's survival."

The dragon queen had to cough up the wine she had mistakenly swallowed at Arya's answer, while Missandei laughed and said, "You had a colorful life then."

"You did not attempt to seek shelter and protection with noble families beholden or allied to the North or find supporters to finance your cause?"

Arya had smiled at the queen and then surveyed the plateau with deserts. There were lemon cakes, fig tarts with honey and marzipan cakes. They were all three tempting, but she settled for a fig tart. "To be honest, it never even entered my mind, Your Grace. Not that I know of any such families in the Free Cities. But if I did, I would not have trusted them. They probably would have either sold me out or forced me into marrying their son or something."

Queen Daenerys eyebrows shot up at that, and for a moment she blinked, before she said, "But you did find people to become part of your - what do they call themselves - Wolf Pack?"

"The wars caused many people to flee for Braavos or pass it, and I searched those whose loyalty is to my family. I was older too and Braavos taught me a thing or two in defending myself. It was that, or become a courtesan myself, Your Grace."

Missandei laughed and the dragon queen had gaped at her with wide purple eyes, but then became very pensive. Arya excused herself then. While the dinner had not progressed into a political solution for the North, at least she hoped their private conversation might lay the groundwork to come to some understanding. She had known from the start that Queen Daenerys' harsh words in the great hall had been a performance to show and maintain power. Throne rooms were not negotiation rooms. But when she found her way to her apartment, she find out about Gendry's arrest. The queen had tricked her behind her back.

Arya had gone straight for the dungeons the next day and asked the jailor whether she could visit either the Kingslayer or the accused outlaw.

"No, milady, I cannot allow anyone in, except those who have permission from the queen." Chendric was his name, and he was fat and had piggy eyes and yellow crooked teeth. He stared at the outline of her bosom in her red dress and blushed when he saw she had noticed it.

She smiled. "Must be a lonely job then, sitting out here alone, all day and night, Ser Chendric?"

He flushed red as a lobster. Apparently he was not used to female visitors, let alone highborn and not turning their nose up at him. He licked his lips. "It's alright, milady, for a job. And I have company."

"Oh?"

"Here he is." The man bent down and stretched his hand out, rubbing his fingers and saying, "Here, kitty, kitty." A black cat appeared and rapidly raced towards the jailor and stroked his legs. "That's Ser Pounce, milady" he explained. "He used to be one of King Tommen's kittens, but after his death nobody cared for them anymore. So, I made him trust me by setting out milk and a bit of scraps of meat every day. Not too much meat though. Otherwise he won't hunt rats as much."

Arya gasped. "Are there rats in here?"

"Oh, don't worry, milady. Ser Pounce catches them all." And then he leaned in to her and whispered. "Nasty creatures that. They give me the bejeebus too."

She gave him her best smile, and the jailor blinked at her several times. "You are a nice man, Ser Chendric. I always say that people who take care of a lost pet have a heart of gold."

Chendric grinned from ear to ear, and only managed to utter, "Hehehehe."

"I must be on my way again now, but it was so nice to meet a nice man like you and to know that the cats of the keep are in good hands with you."

"Huhuh."

She lifted her hand and waved, wriggling her fingers at him. "Bye now!" And Chendric wriggled waving fingers back at her, just before she went around the corner of the corridor and waited.

When not much later, she heard brisk steps with spurs and a flapping cloak coming from the other direction, going to the black cells, she concentrated and tried to jump into Ser Pounce's mind. Before, it had always been something she had done unconsciously. Her first purposeful attempt to use her warging ability was when she had called Nymeria southwards in her dream. The next time she realized Nymeria was in Kingswood, as they were near the end of their voyage and nearby. She had then told Nymeria to meet her and her mate in the clearing. It had all worked. Rowland could not teach her how to use her ability, so their was nothing for her to train it by experimentation. And if she could see and hear though a cat's eyes and ears by accident, then why not doing it on purpose. She thought of Ser Pounce and thought, _please let me borrow your eyes and ears_. Next, she saw worn leather boots, soldier garb, a yellow cloak and she heard a familiar voice say, "Goodday Chendric, the queen wants me to interrogate the outlaw."

 _That's Lem,_ she realized immediately. Chendric said, "Of course, Ser Lonmouth." _But it's a different name_. "I'll lead you to him."

"No, that's alright, Chendric. I can go myself with a torch. Just open the door for me, will you?"

"Sure. Watch out though. The outlaw is strong. He fought all the way from his room to his cell. Knocked out at least three of the Unsullied yesterday. I wouldn't enter his cell without having some back-up."

Ser Lonmouth with his pale yellow cloak chuckled. "He's his father's son, apparently." While, Chendric turned the key of the door he guarded, Ser Lonmouth asked, "By the by, did anyone pass here this morning, per chance? You know trying to speak with the prisoners."

"Euhm, there was a lady earlier on. She asked to see the Kingslayer or the outlaw. Very pretty, dark brown hair, in a red dress, not that tall, but nice - you know," and he indicated breasts with his hands across his chest. "And I think she wants me."

"Sure, sure," said Ser Lonmouth in a gruff voice as he stepped into the corridor of the black cells and picked a torch from above Chendrick's head.

Ser Pounce slipped right along his boots and followed him unseen, while Chedrick mumbled, "Now where did Pounce go?" as he closed the door. "Here, kitty, kitty!"

The stench of the black cells nearly threw her back out of Ser Punce's mind. It took all of her willpower to hold on to the cat's mind, but the more she heard, the sooner she forgot about the reek. She seethed when she overheard Lem's conversation with Gendry and afterwards tried to have Ser Pounce follow him on his heels to find out what his room might have been. But she could only remain in Ser Pounce's mind for so long and only at a near distance.

On top of that, when Lem noticed the tomcat trailing him, he shouted, "Get, you! I loathe cats! Filthy beasts creeping up on you," and kicked him with his boot. That jogged her right out Ser Pounce's mind.

She had a name to go on now, and several days to find out where his room was. At first, she saw nothing of Tom or Lem anywhere, not in the Throne Room or anywhere else where court life gathered. So, she had to rely on spying cats and inquiries with the keep's army of servants, and at last discovered their rooms. Meanwhile her handmaidens that Khal Rakharo had gifted her had been miserable for her and over Gendry ever since, which only irritated her. Only in the privacy of her room did she allow her the luxury to feel, but the handmaidens' attention hindered that. So, only at night, when she was completely by herself, she raged and cried herself to sleep in her pillows. And facing Brienne was too much. She understood how the woman must have felt, but it had been Jaime's choice from the very beginning. Not until he volunteered he had thrown Bran of a tower and why, had she agreed to his suicidal plan. Arya would have supposed she would have hated him for it, and it was a crime heinous enough for her to put him on her list - after all she had killed Dunsen for stealing Gendry's helmet - but in reality she had felt nothing over it. And she did not know why either. Was it her No One? Or had even Arya herself let go of her grievances? But his confession did make her realize that Jaime was so hell bent on his suicidal mission to be tried that she would not stop him anymore.

Arya had every intention to be at Gendry's trial, to defend him, to be a witness for him and to see him. But on the morning of the trial she found herself locked in with dragon guards, or Unsullied as Chendric had called them, in front of her door - Ser Richard Lonmouth's orders - and her windows had bars in front of them, because the Maidenvault had been the rooms once of Baelor's sisters to preserve their chastity. The idea alone that Gendry must have thought she had forsaken him ate at her. The guards left her door, after the trial had been long over, and delivered her an invitation to Lem's room and the news that Gendry was to die the next day. At first she disbelieved that anything fatal could happen to him, that something could be arranged, or reasoned about. But once she learned Gendry had been actually sentenced to die, Arya could not face it. She simply could not imagine him not being there, not reaching her home, not reaching the Wall. Gendry was supposed to be there, by her side, and not just get his head chopped off half along the way. When she appeared at his open forge in Braavos, she thought she would use him. On their sea voyage, Arya believed she would tolerate him. At Starfall, she knew she loved him, but still could go on without him. But gradually that had all changed, certainly after Grassy Vale. What was the point of reclaiming Winterfell if he was not there by her side? So, she had her own ideas about how to be invited by Lem. Armed with daggers, swords and crystals for the gift, she waited in the corridor of their room in her male attire - no dress - until she was sure she could let herself in while no one was present. And in the dark she waited for Lem and Tom to return.

She heard them laugh and congratulate themselves on how well everything had gone, when they entered with candles. Even when they were inside, neither Lem nor Tom were aware of her quiet presence in the shadows, not until they had lit up enough candles and she spooked Tom Sevenstrings.

"What the bloody seven hells!" Tom jumped away from her, and even bign brawny Lem stumbled with his back against the door. If she had not been so murderously angry with them, she would have laughed at how ridiculous they looked.

Arya's eyes were daggers as she met Lem's wild gaze. Maybe he remembered how she broke his nose once. "Why the fuck did you camel cunts reveal he was one of the Brotherhood? He was your sworn brother. He never wronged any of you."

"Lady Arya," Lem began, his hand still on his chest after being startled so.

"Don't you, milady me, Lem - or whatever your name is. And it's princess anyhow." She got up from the corner chair, her feet making no sound as she placed them on the carpet.

Tom glanced alarmed at Lem. "Please, princess," Lem said in a voice he attempted to make sound soothing, which was not an easy feat, since his was gruff, growling and raspy. "Please, sit down, and have some wine."

"H-How do you know it was us?" asked Tom.

"I have my eyes and ears."

Lem waved at Tom to step away and took a chair for himself, grabbing the pitcher of wine on the table and pouring it in two cups. He downed half of his cup, before filling it again and setting it on the table. "Please, Arya, just sit down. We will talk. It is why I invited you, and everything will become clear." Lem turned his head to Tom and said, "Play a song, will you, a loud one. We don't want any little birds to listen on this." He pushed the second cup of wine in Arya's direction. "You're nearly old enough now I think to hold your drink."

"Lem, I vow to you now, you brought Gendry in this mess and you're going to get him out of it too. I can kill you both."

"Yes, I'm sure you do." And then Richard tried to make light of it, by laughing and saying, "I love how fierce you are." He leaned back and whirled his wine around in his cup to help it breathe. "Louder, Tom." He took a sip and then leaned in. "I have done this to make his heart's desire come true." Arya chose to remain standing and had little intention of listening to this farce. "Sit down, Princess Arya! Please," he had regained enough composure to dare to order her. "Only you can save him."

She narrowed her eyes at him and finally pulled the seat from underneath the table and lowered herself on it. "How do you mean - I can save him? I wasn't even allowed in to hear his trial or be a witness. He's been tried and convicted and will be beheaded in the morning."

"Well, yes, I did not want you to accuse us two of being outlaws as well," said Lem. Arya felt the compulsion to chew her lip and snarl - actually she wanted to throttle and stab them both now, without delay - but she went deep inside of herself to search for her No One. "Neither Tom or I can save him. But Gendry has at least a name now."

"What good is a name if he's dead? Besides, Gendry does not care about having a name."

"Are you so sure of that, Your Highness?" Richard said darkly, but then he smiled. "Have you ever heard this song before, Arya?" She had not even been listening. "It's a funny one, but not so much known." He leaned back against his chair again and waved at Tom. "What's it called again, Tom?"

Tom's big, thin mouth grinned hugely from ear to ear. "The hangman's savior." He had never looked more detestable to Arya, with that grin, pointy nose and thin greying hair plastered against his head.

"Play it again, Tom, if you would be so kind. I don't think Princess Arya listened too closely the first time you played it. You know she takes after her uncle like that – not a great fan of songs."

Arya looked from Lem to Tom and back. They were smiling and seemed to think this was all too funny. But she found nothing pleasant about it. Still, she tried to concentrate on the lyrics. It sounded as stupid as any other song, about an outlaw who was tried, and found guilty and he hanged. "He isn't saved," she snarled. "The song's title is a lie. He dies at the end of the song."

Richard Lonmouth shook his head. "Tsk-tsk, Arya. I told you to listen. Play it again, Tom, one last time."

And Tom did play it again, and the outlaw still died at the end. "Enough!" she said. She drank the whole cup of wine down in one go and banged it back on the table, leaned across and brought her face so close to Lem's crooked nose that he had to goggle his eyes. Her voice was no louder than a whisper, as icy as the small ice pinnacles clinging to the window sill outside. "You're both dead by tomorrow evening, and there will be nobody saving you, if Gendry dies in the morning."

Richard's smile was gone. He eyed her thoughtful. "They say you lived in Braavos for several years." She remained silent. "You've changed. You've hardened. Although you were always a tough nut to crack – I mean hard in a different sort of way." Again she gave him no response. And then he said, "You know me and my true name."

Arya smirked. "We are not in Braavos, Ser Richard, and I have my own face."

He swallowed at that. "Lord of Light, so that's why we found no trace of you. Do you know how many men we asked about you before we hung them?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "There are so many Freys. The Twins could spare twenty or thirty of them easily. I think you made it easier for them to get in line for succession when old Walder Frey finally dies." She walked away to the door and threw a fig at him. "Save him! That's an order."

Richard shook his head. "We can't. I already told you – only you can. Remember the song, Arya, and be there in the morning for the beheading, on time. You seriously do not want to miss it. And if you were where I think you were in Braavos, you can certainly figure it out by then."

She closed the door behind her, and deep in thought she retraced her steps through the Red Keep's corridors to her room. Lem had not been playing with her. He had spoken truthfully at the end. But the solution eluded her. "He fucking dies at the end of the song," she said aloud.

"Who dies?"

Arya whirled around and saw a dwarf jump from the broad window sills. "Lord Hand." The last time she had seen him was at Winterfell, when King Robert visited them, before everything went down the tubes. He did not look any prettier. She had been curious to see him then, and thought him funny with his mismatched hair and eyes. Of course, she had met plenty of dwarfs with Izembaro's mummers since then. Many of them had been friends. But she saw nothing funny in the mean lookig dwarf scarred for life. "Or should I call you, good brother?"

He hobbled towards her on his short legs. "You know my marriage to your sister was annulled, lady Arya."

"Princess Arya," she corrected him.

"That doesn't sound like the language of any princess I know."

"I'm the bad kind of princess," she retorted. "I used to make money in Braavos as an actress in a mummer's troupe. There was one play I acted in that was called The Black Hand. You raped me in that play."

"Oh, that was you," he smirked. "Did I enjoy it?"

"What do you want of me, Lord Tyrion?"

"Are we on first name basis now, princess?" But then he shrugged his shoulders. "You said that someone dies at the end of the song. I just wondered who?"

She touted her lips. "An outlaw."

His eyes started to twinkle. "And there's a convicted outlaw needing saving tomorrow morning. This song you have been told about, might it be a riddle? I love riddles you know."

Arya narrowed her eyes. "Why would you of all people help me with such a riddle?"

He grinned. "I'm a sucker for Stark girls." She had a hard time not to sneer at him, but before she could say anything, he gently put his hand on the small of her back and nudged her forward. "Tell me about this song, Princess Arya."

She sighed. What was the harm in it? So she recited the lyrics as best as she could, and finished with, "And at the end he hangs anyway. He dies."

Tyrion laughed. "It's a very nice riddle indeed, and it is telling you exactly how you can save the outlaw who needs saving in the morning."

She stopped and eyed him up and down, which was easy. For once, she did not need to look up at people. "The outlaw in the song dies at the end, Lord Tyrion, he isn't saved."

Tyrion smiled again and with his scar it looked like a sneer. "That's because he didn't want to be saved. He preferred the noose over his only option to be saved. Do you truly believe the man tomorrow will make the same choice as the outlaw in the song?"

Arya widened her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again, folding her arms in front of her chest. "But he's of the Night's Watch. He would be breaking his vow and be killed for that. So then he dies anyway."

Now the Imp looked at her as if she was stupid. "There are certain situations that set a precedent to be released from those vows. I would say that he won't be serving the Wall very much tomorrow if he chooses to die over the only other chance he has to stay alive. It would certainly set a precedent, one your brother, Jon Snow, will find hard to dismiss." He took a step back from her. "Of course, you must be willing to make the sacrifice, princess, or find someone else by the morning to do it for him."

But she was not even listening to the last sentence anymore. _It's genius! Lem and Tom are genius! And it had been glaring right in her face._ She grabbed Tyrion and lifted him and gave him a hug and several kisses. "Thank you, oh Lord Hand. I have no idea why you of all people wanted to help me out, but I owe you something for this."

First Tyrion had looked startled at her impetuous enthusiasm and then he started to smile sheepishly as she rained him with her enthusiastic pecks. He needed a moment to regain his composure when she let him down again. "I think I married the wrong sister. Would I ever stand a chance, oh beautiful princess?" She laughed. "Uhum, well you knew nothing about me in my favor for you, and I cannot fault you for being suspicious, but despite that you treated me as a person." Then his mismatched eyes gleamed uncannily. "Watch out with handing out favors though. I actually may hold you up on it."

"Hmmm," she smiled gleeful and winked at him. "I'm a very gifted woman." She turned and for the first time in her life twirled and danced on Tom's song to her room. Queen Daenerys thought she had managed to have one over her, but all she had really done was doing her a favor without knowing it. All she needed to do now was make sure she was on time for the beheading.

Arya had informed several people when she ought to wake and she had pointed out to Jhiri which dress she would be wearing. But the last night they were so upset themselves, while she was so elated, that they really seemed to think she had lost her wits. She was up with first light, and had them ready her. The dress was modest, not too rich, but befitting her title nonetheless – a white dress for a maiden with pearls and her winter cloak, the one she had worn when she had guided Gendry to the clearing in Kingswood to meet Nymeria.

Rhiki opened the door after someone knocked on it, only to reveal Tyrion. "I thought you might need a man of importance with you, for all the legal stuff." He held out his arm for her. "Your Highness?"

She smiled and curtsied. "It would be my honor, Oh Lord Hand." Rhiki made a face at the Imp when Arya accepted his arm. She had become very adamant that Gendry belonged to Arya and she belonged to him. Arya supposed Rhiki saw Tyrion as a threat to this.

"Lord Dayne awaits us downstairs. I took the liberty to inform him about the solution to your riddle."

By the time their carrier arrived at Baelor's Sept, her heart was thumping in her throat. She stepped out and the square was already fully crowded with a mass of people. She suddenly felt her knees buckle. The last time she was here, she had witnessed the beheading of her father. She was glad that Edric was there to hold her up. Arya did not want to lose another loved one at the same place. But there were guards with them, crying out to let the Hand and his retinue through. She looked around in search for her Wolf Pack.

"They're up front," Edric whispered. "For support."

Her throat was dry. This was not allowed to go wrong, not like last time. "Yes," she croaked.

But before they were halfway there, she already saw him being brought on the steps with a bag over his head, in his black britches and black silk shirt. _Oh, no, we're too far away. They won't hear me_. The bag was lifted from his head, and he winced and squinted against the sunlight. "We must get closer," she panted.

The Imp took her hand in his small one. "We are close enough. It will have more dramatic effect from here. We'll make this the greatest mummer's farce ever staged on these stairs."

Her mind was screaming, _this isn't about a play, but Gendry's life. I'm going to steal a life from the Many Faced God. Oh please, let me do it right. Too many things can go wrong._ Her hands were trembling with fright for anything to go wrong. She had never been as nervous as this before. Only an hour ago she had been happy. But seeing the place, with such a crowd and so much noise, and it was so big, how was she ever going to stop it and sway the crowd in her favor. Her heart broke as she saw Gendry looking out into the crowd, to the people in front of him. He looked damned scared and lost and young with a beard a week old. He had lost weight and his features were gaunt. And still was as handsome as ever.

"What a handsome man," sighed a woman next to her. "And so young still. Such a pity really."

"They say he looks like King Robert when he was young," said another. "No wonder he had so many bastards." And the two women sniggered at the joke.

"Well this one turned outlaw. Hanged people. Many people," said a third woman disapprovingly. "He deserves it. Probably raped a lot of women too. All those poor common folk in the Riverlands." Arya wanted to clout their ears, but she knew she could not do that, not with what she was about to do.

The High Septon stepped forward and started to recite all the crimes he had been found guilty off. "Ser Gendry Baratheon has been tried and found guilty of treason as an outlaw against the judiciary system and took it upon himself to be a vigilante and aided in the hanging of twenty noble men. Apart from that he tried to escape justice by volunteering for the Night's Watch but has deserted the Wall."

Her eyes opened wide as she saw the Queen's Justice step on the stairs as well, sword in hand. "Make it a good one!" a man shouted nearby.

"Chop his head off!" bellowed another. And the cheer was being picked up by the crowd.

 _No! No! No! This was not how it's supposed to be._ Panic threatened to overtake her. The knuckles of her hand that held Tyrion's turned white as she squeezed his. Tyrion huffed in pain. She feared she was about to faint. _Don't fucking faint! Don't fucking faint on him. Not now!_ _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._ But none of that helped, for it was not the loss of her own life she feared and the executioner's sword looked like it could cut a man's head with one blow.

"The world is a stage, princess Arya. You can do this." Tyrion squeezed her fingers in his hand gently.

And that sentence finally calmed her down enough. She controlled her breathing as she stared and saw the Queen's Justice beg him for forgiveness. Gendry nodded and said something that nobody could hear but the executioner. She was regaining her focus, as she recited to herself _the world is a stage, and this will be the greatest stage._ The guards around him lowered him on his knees.  _What do we say to the Many Faced God? Not today!_

"Now!" she mumbled, before shouting as hard as she could. "The Gods have moved me! I claim him! I claim him! I claim him for my husband!" _Camel's cunt, I wish I had Gendry's booming voice._ The people and gold cloaks closest to them turned round and eyed her curiously. "The Gods have moved me! I claim him! I claim him! I claim him for my husband!" she repeated her cry.

The two women who had been commenting earlier stared at her and then widened their eyes. "There's a maiden! A maiden claiming him! A maiden making her claim of the stranger!"

She moved forward and shouted her claim as loud as she could, and Edric and Tyrion joined the cry-out of the two women. She could hardly believe it, but more women and men started to repeat the clamor. All of a sudden a man picked her up above his shoulders and passed her on to the crowd before him, although several of the hands groped her at the most indecent places as she was changed from hands to hands. The High Septon gestured at the Queen's Justice to wait as he looked at the crowd to find out what was happening, what the people were crying about. More people began to join in, until everyone started to shout that a maiden had been moved to claim Gendry for her husband. And it soon turned into the simplest chant, "Wedding! Wedding! Wedding!"

Gendry lifted his head at all the commotion. It was the sole glimpse she had before she lost sight of him again as she was passed across the hands of the masses, until she was almost right before the steps. He stared at her and shook his head, not comprehending what was going on. She saw fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for her. The men of her Wolf Pack lifted her and Gendry's guards pulled her up. The mass was cheering and shouting and waving. She tried to smile at him, as he still sat there on his knees, and she tried to catch her breath.

"I'm a maiden. The gods have moved me. I claim him for my husband, sir." She said in between her breadths, while she stood trembling before the High Septon.

The High Septon looked at her, blinking, and then to Gendry. "What is your name, child?"

"I'm Princess Arya Stark."

The Septon frowned at her and looked at her from top to toe. "And you are old enough to make this demand without the consent of a guardian?"

"Yes," she lied. She was fifteen. But what was a year, anyhow.

The guards had put Gendry back on his legs. "Well, man," said the High Septon to Gendry in a purring voice, "What will you choose? Shall we have a wedding or a beheading?" It seemed the High Septon thought he was being very witty.

"What?" Gendry asked completely baffled.

"This maiden is offering to save you from the stranger, through marriage." He winked at Gendry."If you'll have her, that is. She's much prettier than the woman in the hangman's song." When Gendry still remained completely perplexed by this development, the High Septon asked more sternly, "Or are you married already?"

"No, I'm a brother of the Night's Watch."

"You will not marry her then?"

He finally seemed to register what was being offered to him. "Can I marry her?" But he stared into her eyes and did not look at the Septon anymore.

"She's offering," the High Septon said. "If you wed her, it will save your life. If you don't, off comes the head."

Her eyes were pleading with him, but she could see the cogs of his brain working to make sense of it completely. "But my vows say I may not take a wife."

Arya sighed and rolled her eyes at him. The High Septon smiled and said soothingly, "I doubt the Wall has use of you dead." And he gestured with his hand to her face. "She would make a very pretty bride, don't you think?"

And then Gendry finally smiled, with relief. "Yes! I say yes!"

The High Septon rolled his eyes in relief, lifted his arms in the air and shouted, "There will be a wedding!" The whole square seemed to explode in jubilance and cheers. They picked up the chant again. They were clapping. They were stamping.

"What? Here?"

"Of course," said the High Septon.

She took a step closer, her chest nearly spilling over her bodice with relief. She had done it. She had saved him. People wanted a show, and if they had to choose between two young people marrying on a scaffold - a princess and a legitimized outlaw bastard of a king no less - instead of a beheading, then they would prefer the first, for they could make songs and stories about it and later claim they witnessed it. What did they care about some Freys and Lions hanged or murdered by this King's bastard somewhere far away in the Riverlands. Weren't the Freys those ungodly men who killed a king and his mother at a wedding? And the Lannisters had brought nothing but destruction and misery over them, anyway! Served them all right, that a king's bastard saw to some justice. He deserved to be rewarded with that murdered king's sister as his bride in reward for it all. They looked just so well together. And the High Septon had been won over instantly. This had been the loophole she had needed around his vows of the Night's Watch. She would never have dared to put something so dangerous in motion, but Lem and Tom had. She ought to be angry with them for making Gendry suffer, as well as herself, but she knew that had she or Gendry had known earlier it would never have worked. Gendry was no actor.

She took his hands, which were still shackled. Gendry swallowed and gazed into her eyes. He mouthed _thank you_. And she had tears welling up in her eyes. He smiled at her, the dimples appearing, and love glowing in his blue eyes.

"Do you have a cloak with you, Ser Baratheon?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely, without taking his eyes off of her. He held her hands together in between his, warming them. The chain between his shackles forced him to bow while lifting her hands in his to kiss them. Again the cheers and stamping and clapping roared across the square.

The High Septon ordered the executioner to look for the cloak in Gendry's personal items which otherwise would have been given to the Queen's Justice as a reward for a job well done. The executioner scowled when he returned with Gendry's wolf fur cloak.

"Do we have a volunteer to stand for the father to give the bride away?" shouted the High Septon.

The whole square seemed to want to volunteer for that. She would have chosen one of her Northern men to do it; it would be awkward to ask it of Lord Dayne. But it was Tyrion who climbed the stairs. "I will stand for her father." He smiled at her, turned and waved at the people cheering.

Arya was surprised by it. It was strange for her to be wed by the custom of the seven. Neither Gendry, nor she followed them. For her only the Stranger truly mattered, and he was not even in the Song of the Seven. She would have preferred it, if there had been a weirwood growing at the Sept. But in this situation, beggars could not be choosers. And then to have the Hand of a kingdom she officially was not part of give her away, the man her sister had been forced to marry no less. But perhaps it would make it difficult for the dragon queen to deny the legality of the ritual if her own Hand had given the bride away. Arya nodded to give her consent to Tyrion.

The High Septon said, "I'll dispense with the formalities of all the candles and altar that normally go before the cloaking ceremony. Short and powerful seems best," he winked. "Baelor is after all presiding this."

Arya automatically bent down to aid Tyrion in his task. "I thank you for your helpfulness, Princess Arya." As he unfastened the clasp of her maidencloak, he whispered, "Luckily, you're not as tall as your sister for me to unfasten your cloak, and you're getting a husband who'll manage to cloak you without you needing to bend for him."

The Queen's Justice had loosely draped the wolf fur cloak over Gendry's shoulder in such a way it was difficult for him to grab it with his hands in chained shackles. But her hands were free and she adjusted it so that he could grab one corner and drape it over her shoulders himself. "This cloak symbolizes my protection over you," he whispered to explain it. And even softer he whispered, "Although in this situation perhaps I should fit your cloak around my shoulders."

She looked up into his eyes and shook her head. "I like your cloak." It was wolf fur and it had witnessed a wolfish joining of them. Softer, she murmured, "What next?"

Gendry chuckled. "Our vows." Louder he said, "With this kiss I pledge my love and take you to be M'lady and my wife." For a moment, Arya was unsure what she had to say, thinking Gendry was to kiss her first. He grinned, and whispered, "You must say something similar, first, and then we kiss."

"Oh, alright." She took a deep breath and raised her voice, "With this kiss I pledge my love and take you to be my lord and husband?" She was blushing, wondering whether she had said it correctly.

Gendry nodded. "And now we kiss." He leaned down and put his shackled arms around her while she stood on her toes, and their lips touched.

"Give her good one!" someone cried not so far from their stage. "A damn good smacker!" another man shouted.

Gendry's smile broke wide with the crowd's comments, but then he locked lips with her with open mouth, whirled her so that he swept her off her feet, and their tongues met. Arya had not expected the crowd could make any more noise than they already had, but it seemed like roars at least doubled. _He can put on a good show._ He helped her back on her feet. She tried to imagine what it must have looked like - him in black and tall, her in white and barely reaching his chest; a modest princess and a convict, falling in love before the whole city, including Flea Bottom - a royal poor man's wedding for the common people. It rained little gifts - little trinkets, handkerchiefs, coins, a shawl, a pendant of the Mother - the people's dowry.

The High Septon raised his crystal and shouted, "Here in the sight of God, _Baelor and men_ , I do solemnly proclaim Ser Gendry of House Baratheon and Princess Arya of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and _currrrrsed_ be the one who comes between them." The High Septon loved to please the crowd with that one, because Arya thought she would go deaf with the roars and clamor. The High Septon winked at her. "Oh, what a joy a wedding can be." And actually Arya had to agree. She never knew marrying could be such fun.

"I hope they don't clamor for a bedding," Gendry whispered in her ear as he crushed her to his chest. Then he took her face in between his hands and kissed her slowly and lovingly on the mouth. "Wife."

"They already did the groping thing as they carried me on this stage, husband." She remembered the women's comments. "Although I believe there are quite a number of women out there who would love to tear your shirt off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a historical legal way to save someone from the gallows or beheading in some regions in Europe in the middle ages. It happened rarely, and there are even cases where the man refused the offer, claiming he preferred to die than wed the woman who tried to save him, because of her looks. Which is what we can suppose the outlaw in Tom's song chose: to die over being wed to the woman who offered to save him by marriage.  
> I also know that Baelor's square is not the correct place of execution, and that Dany probably would have respected it (unlike Joffrey), but I needed it to be the same place for Arya's pov, for her to panic.


	23. The Husband

_Wife. Husband._ First he was an outlaw. Then he was dead. But Gendry stepped off the scaffold as someone different, carrying a wife in his arms, through the throng that cheered, clapped him on the shoulder, kids running before him, jumping up and down, women waving kisses and dragon guardsmen with lances and the Wolf Pack around them to keep off the pressing swarm. He moved, he smiled and he spoke, but he would not have a good recollection of it later, other than her light weight in his arms, her head against his shoulders and her arms around his neck. He could have walked straight onto the red keep, but the Imp talked and pointed at Black. _Yes, my horse_. He said something to Edric and Hugo – probably to keep her safe while he got on his horse and held out his arms for them to hand him his wife – and then he waved as he spurred Black into movement. His wife clung to him and leaned into him whispering sweet things. He thought he smiled and said things back. Of those words too he had little memory. He was only truly aware of thinking how soft she was for once – and his wife had never been a tender one. She was a hard, brittle, sharp, little woman, both in personality as well as bones and muscles. But she would always be soft in his eyes and arms.

Children danced around, shouted and raced in front of the horse, leading the way to the Red Keep. He did not really know why he went there. It would have been better to ride out of the city gates to somewhere called home, away from the dragon queen. But they did not have a home, not yet anyway. He would do something about that. For now, home was the room where they stayed, where his wife was guest, so Red Keep it was. People within the Red Keep came running out of Traitor's Gate onto the bridge to see what was going on and stared at them as he passed through the gate into the yard towards the stables. A stable boy ran to them to hold Black by the reins, as he slid off and helped Arya off and onto the ground. People milled about and asked questions, but he did not register any of them. His eye was solely drawn to a yellow cloak. He was on Lem in an instant, grabbing him by his mail and banged his fist right onto his nose.

Blood spurted out and Lem cried out in pain as he doubled over. "Aaargh, you broke my nose!"

People clung to his arms, trying to pull him away, and shouted at him. He lifted his hands in the air and took a step back, indicating he would do no more. "I thought I would set it straight again," he growled.

"What is the meaning of this?" Queen Daenerys strode briskly into the outer yard, and stopped dead in her tracks as he turned around. "Ser Gendry? You're…"

"… supposed to be dead," he finished for her as he bowed to her. "The beheading's off. Instead we had a wedding." He rolled his shoulders and stretched and clenched his fist to relax and Lem's nose actually had been rather tough. "The city had a public royal wedding and is still celebrating in the city." He felt Arya's arms slide around his waist and he laid his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close.

The queen opened her mouth, closed it again, looked from him to Arya, to the people around them, and in that instant he saw a small, young woman no older than him, who probably knew less about what went on in her city and keep than him. Even though he had been completely and literary in the dark in his cell, almost since the very beginning of his arrival. "How…?" she finally managed to say.

A round, plump, bald man in silks and perfume stepped to her side. Gendry needed some time before he realized it was the same man who had visited Jaime and him in their black cells and gave them the wine. And he finally recognized him as one of the men near the Iron Throne the day they stood before the queen, shortly after arriving, in the Great Hall. _Varys, his name is Varys,_ he reminded himself _._

"Allow me to explain it to you, Your Grace," Varys said.

Queen Daenerys stared at Varys with wide violet eyes. "Please do, Lord Varys."

"Apparently there is an ancient custom where a maiden can save a convict's life and keep him out of the Stranger's clutches through the offer of marriage. And it seems that Princess Arya has used this custom to save her captain's life."

Daenerys' eyes trailed back to regard him and then back to Varys. "How come I never heard of this?"

Varys smiled. "It is more akin to somebody heard that somebody else has seen it happen type of thing – something out of songs and stories. It happens rarely, since not that many unwed girls are eager to have a convicted criminal for a husband – let alone their fathers – and not all convicts are handsome, young, unwed men. The most famous case _sings_ about a criminal who turned down the _maiden_ offering to save him, because she was so vile, ugly and mean that he felt he was better off hanging than be a married man. This is the first time I know of an actual case in living memory – let alone involving a princess." He looked around and his eye fell on Tom Sevenstrings who hung around in the back, trying to look innocent as he plucked his woodharp. "No doubt, there will be someone making a song out of today's events."

"And is this legal? I thought the Seven regarded a marriage at sword point as invalid."

Just arriving, Tyrion Lannister wobbled into view. "It is legal. Someone recently asked me about the song that Varys just mentioned, and I looked it up. It is the sole exception to the forced marriage rule. In such a case it is not ' _marry or die_ ', but ' _die or marry_ ', and apparently the order in which the two occur is of great doctrinal importance to the Faith."

Arya had told Gendry as he rode them on Black towards the Red Keep about this song and that it had been Lem's and Tom's intention all along. That was why he had planted his fist in Lem's face. Gendry finally started to see the complete picture. Lem and Tom had seen him at court alongside Arya the day of their arrival, and must have cooked the whole plan up by themselves – most likely it had been Tom who had thought of it first and suggested it to Lem. He was the minstrel after all. They would not have known about Arya's plan regarding the reforging of Ice. They just had seen the opportunity to set up a wedding of tales which would resolve the whole class difference between Arya and himself as well as his bondage to his vows of the Night's Watch. The suggestion to legitimize him probably was an afterthought whispered into Danaerys' ears by Lem. It was actually very clever, but damn them to darkness for not telling him and having him sweat for his life at the chopping block. Worse, Lem had made him believe even he thought Gendry had betrayed the Brotherhood to the Freys. He glowered in the direction of Lem – who still covered his face with a bloodied hand and groaned from the pain - and Tom, who laughed sheepishly back, shrugging his shoulders.

Daenerys turned to them and said in her light voice, "I think this means I must congratulate you both on this quite unusual marriage, Princess Arya and Ser Gendry." And then to Tyrion she whispered, "Should I order an impromptu feast for tonight, you think?"

"Something traditional after being wedded in shackles and on a scaffold might not be a bad idea, Your Grace. And perhaps something for the citizens as well? I must say, the crowd loved it. They went absolutely and positively wild. I never saw such a thing before, except when they went wild for Lollys. My nephew's wedding to Margaery Tyrell was nothing to it."

Daenerys smiled. "Yes, that seems like a very good idea. We should certainly allow the people to have their celebration."

"But no bedding," interrupted Gendry. "We can do without that."

He saw Daenerys shudder visibly. "Yes, of course." She smiled one last time before turning and walk back into the keep, starting to giver orders to those closest to her, who were to order the army of servants.

Gendry had expected anger or protest from her, outright refusal of the situation, but apparently Daenerys had locked him up and tried with less personal involvement he had originally thought. She was busy with ruling a city and kingdoms and weighing one situation over another, and the realm meant more to her than any personal resentment she still felt towards a name or blood. While it had been a crime what the Freys had done in his eyes at the Twins, he understood the Twins was an important crossing and defense position, and that probably Queen Daenerys had no time yet to displace them. She had to work with the Houses of the Realm, even ungodly ones like Lord Walder Frey. She knew Lem and Tom had once been part of the Brotherhood and probably did not care. Khal Rakharo had said to them once that the Freys deserved to die. But she was in no position yet to openly discount accusations of members of the Brotherhood, and it had been Lem and Tom who had made the accusation of him public. _Perhaps_ , he though, _I misjudged her_. Before she disappeared from sight, Gendry let go of Arya and ran towards the queen. "Your Grace?"

Daenerys stopped and pivoted on her heels. "Yes, Ser Gendry?"

"I have a request." She frowned annoyed. He realized she was not fond of distractions and petitions. A lot of people probably wanted something of her, day and night. "Forgive me for my boldness or taking up any more of your time, Your Grace, but it is not for myself I ask this."

"Yes."

How was he going to explain this? "Ser Jaime Lannister," he started and she frowned darkly at the mention of his name. "I-I understand perfectly you regard him as an enemy of the state. To be honest, I used to hate the man myself. B-But the black cells… It was he who wanted a trial."

"Him, not Princess Arya?"

He noted how Daenerys gave Arya her title without afterthought. "Well, they agreed on it both, but he…" How should he put this without making her suspicious? "He asked it of … my wife. She has no love for the Lions, for what they did to her family and Ser Jaime was involved in that. But… well… he's odd, and has a very personal value system.. and this is why he wants a trial."

"What are you trying to tell me, Ser Gendry, or ask of me?"

Gendry licked his lips. "Well, I think Ser Jaime shouldn't be in a black cell. He already is in a black cell in his mind, far longer than any of us know him."

Daenerys lifted her eyebrows. "Where would you suggest I put him then?"

"Well.. I think…"

"Yes? You think?"

He just blurted it out then. "I think he should not be in any prison cell. He will not run, less likely than any of your hostages." There he had said it.

Daenerys cocked her head. "That is a very odd suggestion, Ser Gendry. I cannot truly have him prance around my court. It would not do. And the black cells are meant to keep dangerous traitors. He was a traitor to my father, to his vows as King's Guard, to his own sister even." Still she seemed to consider his words. "But perhaps you are right. Perhaps I can have him moved to the cells for highborn captives, even if my Hand would dislike that greatly."

Gendry bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace." He started to retreat, stepping backwards, as he had seen others do in the past before royalty.

"Ser Gendry, wait."

"Your Grace?"

She studied him, full length. "You grew up in Flea Bottom as an orphan, didn't you? And you have only recently discovered who your father was?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"You are an odd and bold man yourself, Ser Gendry. Few people born there would volunteer their opinion to any higborn, whether a queen or a princess. For a Flea Bottom bastard, even a bastard son of a king, you have done very well for yourself so far and have made some very odd choices in your life, like joining that Brotherhood. What exactly motivated those choices?"

Gendry frowned and thought about it, before answering, but eventually he chose the simplest answer. "Love and the common people, Your Grace. The common people are the realm to me. A-And my wife is … my love."

Daenerys blanched. He had no idea what she thought of the answer. Her eyes glazed over as if she was seeing in the past. She frowned in thought. "Your wife is very lucky to have met you then. We women are often a means to an end for many men who hope to acquire power, our name, our lands and our bodies for themselves. If we want to rule, we cannot think with our hearts. Sometimes, I still wish that my first husband had never died and I could still ride with his khalasar as his khaleesi. Things were simpler then, or so I wish to believe. But circumstances and choices lead us on until we sometimes wonder, _what was it all for?_ For the people, the slaves, the highborn, family long dead or myself? Our life and our past and history becomes a prison."

Gendry realized he was looking at a woman torn apart between all kinds of values and interests without really knowing her purpose for herself. There were songs sung about her and her man Daario, and yet he could see plainly that Daario Naharis must be one of the many people around her who pulled her strings without giving her an anchor. "Everybody must find their anchor, Your Grace," he said, realizing why he felt so changed today. Arya was his anchor. Now that he could call her wife, he felt he was one with his duty. He knew he would be her husband over anything else.

The dragon queen blinked at him, and then smiled. "Yes, and it seems you found yours."

"I hope you find it, one day, Your Grace."

She smiled genuinely at him then. "Thank you. I hope so too." Then she looked behind him. "I think your wife wants you. You must look the part for your wedding feast tonight." She gestured him to go, but then said, "Incidentally, what are Ser Jaime's motivations you think?"

"Not unlike my own, Your Grace."

She finally let him go and when he turned around, he saw his wife standing there with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot, glaring. He laughed at the sight of it and that seemed to confuse her. He lifted her in his arms and whirled her around in the outer yard, where the people had dispersed and had gone back to their work.

"Put me down, Gendry," she demanded.

"No," he said. He could say that now, freely. "You are my wife, and I can hold you." He knew that Arya had told him less than a year ago that they were equals, in Braavos. But he never felt it to be true until then. He knew she would be demanding and upset and they would probably argue often. She never liked it when she had no say over someone else. She was still protesting, furiously, that very moment and he told her no again and again. He could see it was making her angrier by the moment. But she herself had empowered him that very morning. The boy was gone. A man had risen instead. He finally put her down, the moment he felt like it. She looked at him angry and upset. It made him laugh even more.

"What the bloody hell is so funny?"

"You look so much the wife already. It's like we've been married for years already." He slapped her on her bottom. "And I want you to stop drinking moon tea."

Arya opened her mouth, closed it. "If I knew you would start bossing me around, I would never have saved you this morning."

He chuckled. "You must lie in the bed you chose, wife, and you chose mine. I'm a husband now, and that gives me the right to boss you too."

She whacked him on the shoulder, while biting her lip. "I still get to boss you around too."

"I know." It made him laugh so hard, "It's just that I get to veto stuff now."

She glared at him and he laughed tears then. She kicked him against the shins. "Ouch! What kind of wife kicks her husband?"

"The bad kind," she fumed.

He was still chuckling, ignoring the flaring pain of his shin, and then suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her to him and kissed her hard and passionate. She was wriggling in his arms to be released, but he did not let go of her, although he relaxed his hold and his kiss gradually, and she finally gave in when he did so. He lifted her in his arms and she shrieked. "I need a bath," he grumbled. "Wash all that grime and angst from the black cells off, and shave my beard."

She was all softness again, just as when he carried her off Baelor's Sept that morning. "Did you mean it, Gendry, when you told me to stop drinking moon tea?"

"Certainly. My sole regret this morning, when they dragged me to my beheading, was that I had not left you with child."

She laid her head against his shoulder and smiled. "I like that."

"Where to?" he asked, shifting her in his arms before he started on the stairs.

"Straight, second floor, then left, second right." And then she drawled out the word, "Husband."

He followed her instructions until he arrived at a door. "Here?"

"Yes," her voice was soft and low.

He kicked against it with his boot, and said, "Out, you three," to her three handmaidens, after Jhiri opened the door. They ran outside giggling.

Jhiri had her hand on the door handle and peeked around the door before closing it. "Good, Gendry is alive."

"Yes," he sighed as he pivoted around the room, thinking where to put his wife. "Gendry is alive and married."

"Married?"

"Aye, close the door, Jhiri. A husband has his duties." He saw the featherbed and moved towards it, and he could see in the corner of his eye that Arya was biting her lip in anticipation.

"You've changed, Gendry," she said as he laid her gently down. "And I think I like it more, than I care to admit."

He smirked at her, as he pulled off the shirt he had worn all week in his cell. "So, you want to start on the baby making right now, or do you want me to take a bath first?"

Arya started to pull at the laces of her bodice, as he undid his belt and toed off a boot. "Maybe we can do both all at once?"

"Right." Gendry nodded. "You have the head for planning." With her bodice half undone, Arya lifted herself off the giant bed and started for the water left to being heated over the fire of the hearth, as he lifted the other leg to pull off the other boot. Having hot water prepared and ready was one of Jhiri's main tasks. When he noticed she struggled with the weight, he said, "Come, let me do that."

Gendry took the large container with ease and dumped it in the tepid water that was already in the tub. And then he stripped off his breeches, climbed into the tub, eased into the water and laid back. He closed his eyes and sighed. Not until Nightsong had he ever taken hot baths. It was a luxury of the rich, and he was still fine with a pale of cold water. But he felt never so grateful of one, then after the filthy, anxious days in the black cell. It was exactly of the temperature he preferred. Not scalding hot, nor too cold. He closed his eyes and allowed the water to take the remainder of worries trapped in his muscles away from him. And when he felt her hand stroking his shoulder from behind him and then slide across his chest, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile.

"I'll wash you," she said softly and dipped the sponge in her hands in the water.

He opened his eyes enough to peek at her - _my wife_. Arya was only dressed in her smallclothes, not the regular woolen one, but white cotton that had some fringes and tiny, blue flowers embroidered on the shoulder straps. Where she had unearthed those, he did not know. It always surprised him when she wore something with frills. It was a rarity to see her into something so feminine. He lifted a hand out of the water and reached for it. "Where did you get this?"

"It was something Bellegere gave me," she said, as she squeezed the sponge over his chest and rubbed down his chest. "Although it didn't fit as tightly then yet."

"D-Did you wear it for..."

She immediately shook her head, as she pushed him forward to rub his back next. "No. We often had dressing games between the two of us. We'd pillage through her closets to dress up as bravos, or pirates, or princesses - anything we felt like, really - even draw moustaches or chin beards with khol on one another." She started on his thighs now. "Sometimes, she would take me out to a dressing shop to seek a detail that would complete the intended costume. She helped me to experiment and become comfortable with the woman within me. She's the only woman friend I ever really had in that way."

He eased back again and studied her face. Her hair was drawn up loosely to the back of her head with tendrils framing her face. She lifted his arm and noticed his angry red scraped knuckles and brought them closer for inspection. "How'd you come by these? Surely, Lem's nose is not made of bricks."

He winced when she dapped the sponge softly on the wounds. "No, but the walls of my black cell were." He pulled his hand away, savoring it for a moment, by rubbing his thumb into his palm. "It's nothing really. Just me, being my regular stupid self," he grinned and winked at her. "I had no hammer, anvil and metal to blow off steam. Thought a brick wall might serve just as well." She rolled her eyes at him, and started lathering soap onto his beard. "So, which costume was completed by this lovely thing then?" He pulled at the shoulder straps and one slid across her shoulder.

Arya grinned cheekily. It destroyed the picture of standard femininity, but thereby she became her regular self full of juxtapositions that he loved so much. "The bride," she said. He chortled, and before she knew his intentions, he grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into the tub, while she cried, "No, no, no!" and shrieked. She landed with her bottom in his lap in the water, and she splashed water back into his face as retribution. "Now, you ruined it."

Gendry stared at his young wife in his arms, and the soaked smallclothes clinging wet against her skin. He wriggled his eyebrows at her. "I think I just improved it." And he bent down to suck at her dark teat shining through the wet cotton, feeling his mouth fill with the water soaked up by the cloth, as he pushed his erection against her arse in his lap.

She gasped, but pushed against his shoulders, so she could pull in her legs in the tub as well, while he admired her nipple straining against the cotton. Arya looked sternly at him. "Not yet."

"You were the one who said we could bathe and make babies at the same time." 

"You need a shave first," she insisted.

"I can make babies with or without a beard," he retorted, as he reached for her waist to drag her to him again.

She bit her lower lip and slapped his groping hands. "Have some patience, husband."

"I'll have you locked in a black cell for a week and we'll talk about patience then," he growled, as he tried to grab for her again.

But she had reached with her arm for something beside the bad and held up a shaving blade. "Behave, you! I'm armed now."

He grumbled in protest, but she lifted her eyebrows as if warning him, lifting the blade firmly clutched in her hand to emphasise her point. "Alright then," he said in frustration, and closed his eyes, lifting his chin. He heard the splash as the blade sliced through the water, and felt her knees seperate his legs for her to come nearer.

He smirked and felt for her legs, the cotton of her wet smallcothes crackling under his stroking hands, and then the cold blade against his throat. "I told you to behave," she whispered into his ear, while water dripped from her onto his chest.

"I'll grope my tease of a wife, if I want to," he bit back and placed his hands on the cheeks of her arse. He gave them a good squeeze to emphasise his meaning.

But when he felt the pressure of the blade as she started to shave the first of his prison beard off, he relaxed his hold and remained as still as possible. As she worked on his sideburns and jaw, she said, "So, now that you are officially a Baratheon have you already decided on a sigil then?"

"What for?"

"Well, so I can have Rhiki embroider it on your shirts."

"No, no sigil," he said gruffly. "I'm a husband and you are my first duty now. Still, I have not totally foresworn my vows to the Night's Watch – I'm not a deserter and I still serve the Realm. Men of the Night's Watch have no sigil and wear black." He opened his eyes and looked at her face she had put the side as she concentrated on shaving his chin. He waited until she washed the soap of the blade, before saying, "My wolf fur cloak and helmet is sigil enough – yours."

"But your name is still Baratheon," she said.

"Who cares?" he shrugged his shoulders.

"Our child, perhaps?" She leaned closer again, lifted his chin up with a finger to start on the other half of his face.

His hands moved from her buttocks to her waist. "How about this?" He waited for a moment as the knife razed along his skin, and then said, "As a Night's Watchman I can't pass on my name. And yet any child of ours will have a legal status through our marriage, and you can pass the Stark name on."

"Done," she said, and he cupped water in his hands to splash his face. "I never heard of such a thing being done before."

Gendry splashed more water in his face, rubbed his eyes and carefully opened one to test for the sting of soap. "We're in unchartered waters as far as I know. Guess we can make the rules up ourselves, then."

She smiled at him. "Perhaps I should inquire with the Dornish about that, with their unusual succession rights and women able to pass on their name."

Gendry's mind was elsewhere already, drawn back to the wet, cotton smallclothes clinging to her body. He rose from the water, took her face in his hands and kissed her softly and repeatedly. She wanted to say something, but in between kisses, he murmured, "Enough about sigils," kiss, "and names." Kiss. "Time for some," kiss, "baby making."

She giggled, and then whispered barely audible in his ear, "Actually, my bleeding started yesterday. So, we can't make any baby today."

So, that would explain her coy behaviour, he finally realized, although it had not stopped them before. "Then we practice at it," he grinned. "And I'll be very tender." The last came out as a whisper.

He stood and he took her hands in his to help her stand and help her climb out, lifted her and carried her to the bed. He set her down on her feet beside it, and rolled the pants that reached as far as her knees down. He briefly noticed the waterlogged pinkish soft padding that came down with it. _Yes, I need to be tender_ , he thought. _No baby will come of this, but maybe.. maybe soon_. He lifted her arms and pulled off the top. They stared into each other's eyes, both naked and both realizing this would be their first time as husband and wife. He brought his face down to hers and kissed her, while his thumb stroked her jaw, and his other hand slid around her waist to cup the cheek of her arse. In a fluent motion, he wedged his knee in between her legs and pushed her downwards, onto the bed, with his loving, tasting, smacking kiss. His thumb went down her throat, and his fingers trailed down over her bony chest, gingerly for her breast, and he rubbed her nipple with his callused palm until it stood hard in the air. His hand cupped her breast, and he knew it fit his large palm better than they did a few months ago. He still kissed her, his tongue intertwining with hers. His cock strained against her wet thighs. His other hand stroked the soft skin of her firm round arse, and one knee of hers carressed his thigh up and down and up again into an embrace. He felt his hunger befuddle his mind, like a thick mist, whispering, _lose yourself into her, let go of all restraint_. He grunted, famished, but he denied himself the wavering of his will to be tender. He needed to stop.

Gendry panted as he stopped the kiss and looked down on her, into her almost dark eyes. _Be still, my beating heart_ , he told himself. She was smiling at him, staring, but with more time, questioning. "Why do you stop?"

Yes, why did he stop? To look at her. To freeze this moment into his memory forever. He thought he would never see her again, but a few hours ago, that he would be a headless corpse, never able to love her again. Here, he had the first real chance to do everything as it ought to be, not on some boat like a clueless fool, not against the wall devoured by jealousy, not like a thief in the night or some Dothraki making his woman come as they rode double on a horse. Not that he regretted any of it, lord of light no. Lovemaking and loving required practice and time. They only happened to train for this before they were married. And he did not believe they would have ever gotten to being married without it - not Arya. The wolves in the snow had been the right thing. It had united them as a pair of wolves. But now, here, they were husband and wife.Gendry could not put that all in words to her though. Instead he said, "B-because I want to do it right, not just ravish you. I don't want to hurt you. It's our first time as..."

She put her fingers on his mouth to shush him, lifted her head and kissed him, pulling him back down on her in her embrace, while the foot of her other leg carressed his shin. He rolled his groin against her mount, his cock trapped between her belly and his, as he kissed her again. With such sweet, lazy tongues his blood soon returned to a boil. His hand left her breast, went to her knee around his hips, down along her inner thigh with his thumb. She moaned, and lifted her hips, trapping his erection even more and his balls carressed her warm, wet folds.

"Gods," he mumbled.

He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, biting it, and rocked his hips onto her again. She whimpered and her head rolled to the side. He bent lower, his tongue trailing down to her other breast. She lifted her hips again, and he rocked her again, while he encircled her breast, greedy for more and then sucked hard on her erect nipple.

"Gendry," she murmured. "I need..."

He pressed his groin into her rising hips again, and she groaned. He tugged and pulled and sucked her breast hard and eager, while his two thumbs ripped through the joining of muscles of her hip and pubis, while he rubbed her mount with his cock.

"Please," she sobbed, lifting her hips so high that his cock slipped towards her cleft.

And how could he refuse her pleading with him? His mouth searched hers again, while his hands took hers in his own and brought them up above her head. He held them there with one hand, as he grabbed his cock and pulled the foreskin a few times across the ridge of his tip to lubricate and settled his bulbous tip into her entrance. Slowly he entered, crying, "Gods, Arya!", when he felt her stretch and rub around his cock, and yet it was a slick slide. She whimpered as if in pain. He stopped before thrusting further into her and looked at her with concern, "Am I hurting you?"

"Just be gentle with me," she said. She lifted her head to kiss him, with her arms still bound by his grip above her head, and then murmured, "There are sharp ears and eyes in the Red Keep." Gendry blinked at her in consternation. In his ear she breathed softly, "Varys' birds will confirm you took my maidenhood." And then she lifted her hips upwards, so he slid in completely and she cried and involuntarily cringed. He usually avoided sheathing her completely when she had her bleeding, because the entrance of her cervix was too swollen and sensitive then, if he bumped it too roughly.

He pushed her hip back down and lifted his own hips enough. "Will you be alright, Arya?"

She panted, strained her neck to kiss his mouth. "Yes. Please continue, Gendry. Just take care of me."

Gendry chuckled and lowered his forehead against hers. "As m'lady commands."

He knew the perfect, most tender rubbing for that. He let go of her hands, placed his hands on the bed beside her, lifted his hips enough so his cock would slide down, rather than upwards, and with torturous short, rhythmic thrusts of his pelvis, massaging the head of his cock just a few inches into her and almost out again, rubbing the bulbous ridge up and down against her ribbed, swollen magical spot of ecstasy. His breath got caught in his throat. The constant stroking of his sensitive ridge made him quiver with joy. It was rapture. It was agony. It was happiness. He chuckled and then he laughed.

The matrass started to creak and bounce. His arm muscles strained. She closed her eyes and panted in silence and concentration with half open mouth, licking her lips. Her eyes fluttered for a moment, and a soft moan escaped her lips. He bowed his head to look down at his cock, blood glistening wet and then watch the tells of her face. Her breathing stopped for a moment. Her nose wrinkled. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes, and her hands went around his neck and wrapped his hair through her fingers.

"My sweet," he panted, still laughing, kissing her and releasing her lips again. "My love, my wife." He closed his own eyes, fighting his own build up.

"Almost," she sobbed, gasped and then held her breath, straining under him, shifting her hips a little higher, so he thrusted slightly deeper into her. "Oh, Gendry, I love you."

""Come for me, now," he ordered her with urgency, as he near guffawed from the bliss, and tried to keep his biceps from trembling from the strain. He could not stop himself for much longer. His cock was ready to burst. "Lord, gods, sweet, sweet, Arya. I'm . gonna . come." 

"Yes," she whispered and giggled along with him. She moved her hips up each time he rose, following the quick, short strokes. One hand of hers gripped around his back and dug into his shoulder. "Gendry!" she wheezed, high-pitched. It almost sounded like a question. "I..."

He broke out in full laughter and shoved into her deeper for his full release that shot up from his balls. She trembled underneath him, while her lips and tongue frantically searched for his, ardently. It sent another wave of seed through his cock. And as it spurted out, again and another time and once more, his own convulsions matched her sucking pulsations. He rolled his tongue with hers, and the flare of his balls rippled along his ass, down his thighs, into his toes, up his back and stomach, glowing across his chest and into his biceps, until his mind was a humming buzz of bliss and giggles. He collapsed, whispering her name and, "I love you," chuckling, wrapping his arm around her as he rolled on his side.

Gendry opened his eyes and found himself staring into her smiling grey eyes. Another chuckle escaped him. She giggled automatically back. Still, "What's so funny?" she asked.

He shook his head and wiped tears of the laughter out of his eyes. "Not funny, but joy, happiness, to be alive, to have you for my wife, for this." He started laughing again. He tried to suppress it, but he could not. She grinned back and laughed too. He sniffed his nose, when he finally regained some control over his giggles, and gathered her into his arms to feel her alongside of him. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. "Are _you_ happy?" he asked.

"Hmmm. Yes, I am." Her voice sounded soft and sleepy.

He chuckled. "Don't doze off just yet."

"Hmmm?" He crawled of the fluffy mattrass, took her hand and tugged at her to follow him. She moaned in protest.

"Come," he said again, and walked with her to the tub. He dipped his toe in it, and it was not even tepid anymore.

Still he made her join the water, and she pouted. "It's cold."

"You said to take care of you and I will." He grabbed the sponge, let it soak up water, opened her legs and started to wash the smears of her bleeding.

Arya let him do what she usually did herself, but hugged her goosefleshed arms, while her teeth shattered. "I'm really cold, Gendry."

"I know, my love," he said. He smiled at her. "Done."

She did not need any more encouragement and jumped out, jumping up and down, before she opened her coffer of posessions and rummaged through it to pick out a pair of wool smallclothes and padding, which she donned. She kicked her feet against his clothes strewn about the floor, picked up the shirt, smelled it and made a face, whiel he cleaned himself now. "Best you throw these out. You have spares." She held his shirt and breeches up with her index and thumb, as far away from her as possible, pinching her nose with the other hand. Then she walked to the hearth and threw them in the fire. "There! Done too." She hunched down in front of the fire, put another log on it, and wrapped her arms around her legs while her toes curled upwards, heels planted in the bear pelt.

"And what am I going to wear then?" he asked, as he walked back to the bed and stared at the stains of her moon bleeding on the sheets. Arya was right. For outsiders it would look as if he had taken her maidenhood. He decided to drag them off nonetheless. Then he grabbed a blanket, sat next to her by the fire, put his arm around and drew her into the warmth of the blanket. Outside, the sky had turned dark and grey and snow was falling.

"Rhiki spent all week making extra for you," Arya said, as she laid her head on his shoulder. "It was her way of assuring herself you'd come back to us."

"When is this feast supposed to begin then?"

"No idea," she murmured. "But it's still early."

He stared into the crackling flames. "I like being your husband," he said and kissed the crop of her hair.


	24. The Ballroom Dancer

The hastily arranged feast was held in the Queen's Ballroom, which had panels of carved wood and beaten silver mirrors on the wall to make it look bigger and increase the light from candles and torches on the wall. It could hold one hundred guests, which meant that at least half of the Wolf Pack, except for Jaime, could partake in the feast. The rest held a feast outside, in the city, along with King's Landing citizens. As was the custom bride and groom were meant to share their food and drink - one plate, one chalice. It was easier said than done. First a bowl of carrot and onion soup was set in front of them and they only had one spoon, and Arya was not one to be spoonfed. Luckily a basket of crusty bread was set on their table.

She tore off a piece and dipped it into the soup, that looked more like a broth. For a moment her memory shifted back to Harrenhall and the Weasel soup Hot Pie had been making before Rorge and Biter came into the kitchen to carry it away. She never got to taste the Weasel soup herself and it had only contained onions, not carrots. But the cook had said it was not fininished yet. Arya imagind that if the Weasel soup had time enough to simmer all of its ingredients, this kind of soup might have been the finished result. Arya bit into the soaked bread. "Hmmmm, Queen Daenerys was right. That cook of hers does make delicious bread." And the soup was spiced with ginger.

A tense Gendry watched how the Queen's guests were spooning their soup. They held the spoon at the tip, ladling only a bit of it and swallowed it with puckered lips. He tried to hold the spoon in a similar fashion, aimed to scoop only half a spoonful and eat it in similar manner, with the result he slurped. He immediately brought down his spoon and colored. "How'd they manage that without slurping?" he said and only then turned his head, to see her lick the corner of her mouth where a sliver of onion still clung. He laughed, brought his thumb to her face and wiped it away. "Well, I guess that if you don't care for table manners..."

She smirked at him and dipped in another piece of bread in the soup. "Only manner I know not to slurp soup." And she munched down the piece. "See, no slurping."

He smiled at her, put the spoon down, took a piece of bread and ate the soup like she did. Other guests had noticed how they were eating their soup and at first seemed confused by it, until Ser Richard Lonmouth at the Small Council table laid his spoon down and followed their example, then Missandei did the same thing, and when Queen Daenerys thought it fun as well, everybody dipped the soup with bread.

Next, came a mixed salad of all kind of lettuces in all kinds of colors, sprinkled with crumbled white cow cheese, black raspberries and roasted walnuts and a plum dressing. Gendry attempted to use the fork and failed, sending a chunk of walnut flying. "I think I'll skip this course," he said exasperated and laid the fork down.

"Let me do it, husband," she said and pricked a leaf of lettuce, cheese and a fig onto the fork. Then she scooped it through the dressing and held it in the air for him to take into his mouth. He opened his mouth and all the while looked into her eyes. His blue eyes were smoldering darkly at her. She picked a walnut between her fingers and held that out for him as well. "Gives it a bit of a crunch," she said, smiling, her eyes gleaming. He took both of her fingers in his mouth, sucked them in and savored them, and still kept staring at her. She gasped and she felt her tummy flurry, before he let go. But then her cramps played up. She reached for the chalice of wine and drank a big gulp of it as a form of self medication.

"Not bad," Gendry finally said. "And good to know you'll be able to feed me when I'm old and toothless. But I'm not a rabbit." He pushed the plate towards her for her to finish. "Salads are a girly thing." Although he did snatch a fig and some raspberries with his fingers.

"Not so," she said. "I stick 'em with the pointy end," Arya retorted and rather violently pricked the salad's ingredients on the fork. "Besides, remember how we once had to survive on raspberries?"

Gendry's eyes widened as he popped another raspberry in his mouth. "It's better than bugs."

The third course was roasted rabbit on a skewer, basted in honey, with mushrooms and onions. She tore off a leg and nibbled on it, while Gendry tore off the other leg. She stole a glance at him. "We shared rabbit before, once," she said, suddenly overcome with emotion.

"Hmmm?" He chewed on the leg, eyeing it hungrily. "This is good! Lord, I'm starving. I lived on molded bread for a whole weak."

She remembered how she had whacked a rabbit with a stick that crossed her path by happenstance. "When Yoren took us off King's Road to hide from the Gold Cloaks," Arya whispered. She pried off a piece of tender, moist flesh of the leg and put it in her mouth.

Gendry frowned and shook his head. "I don't remember that."

She kicked his shins under the table, and he looked at her surprised. "I hunted it, and Yoren gave me a whole leg, while everyone else only got a scrap of it. I even shared my leg with you," she said hurt he had forgotten about it. In frustation she put her teeth in the rest of the leg.

He smirked at her. "I'm sure it tasted good and that I appreciated your gesture."

She put the leg down. "If anyone would have told me then, that the next time I would share rabbit with you it would be on our wedding meal, I would have kicked them in the nuts," she muttered displeased, folding her arms in front of her. "And you don't even remember it."

"Oh, don't be like that," he said as he laid the leftover bone of his rabbit's leg down, grabbed the carcass and cracked it in half. He leaned in to her ear and whispered. "I'll bet you that I have plenty of memories about you that you forgot about or don't even know about."

"Like what?"

"Like the time you rolled around and nestled yourself against me, in your sleep, mumbling something about me being strong and warm." He grinned at her with a glint in his eyes.

"I did?" she gasped. She eyed the half finished leg, picked it up again and nibbled at the rest of it.

"Yup," he quipped, cracked a rib of the rabbit's carcass and sucked the meat of the bone. "I had already figured out you were a girl, quite soon actually - never understood why the others didn't - and, well, all I could do was put my arm around you. It was the first time a girl huddled up against me. You were quite charming too, even if your hair was a scruffy mop and your face was all smudged with dirt." Arya blushed profusely. "Of course, by the morning you already had rolled away from me."

"I never knew about that," she whispered.

He laughed. "That much was obvious. You'd call me stupid and stubborn often enough, or hit me."

"Was that why I could not really anger you?"

"I guess so. Hard to be angry with a little girl calling you names and hitting you by day, while she crawles into your arms in her sleep by night for protection and warmth." He wiggled the bone in front of her nose. "I knew that deep down you liked me." Her cheeks were burning. "You look adorable when you blush like that," he smirked. "And when you chew your lip," he added as she was just doing that. 

"But you were angry with me later," she said soberly.

"I was," he admitted, and he licked the honey and grease from his fingers. "It became too confusing and too painful, with all of them feelings and me becoming a man. Seemed easier to frighten you away from me, than waiting for you to become a woman." He took her hand and kissed it. She flinched at the sigh of his wounded knuckles, though they showed the first signs of healing. "But I told you about that already."

"When was that?"

"What?"

"Well, when I first huddled into your arms."

"Hmmm." He stared up to the ceiling. "Let's see, if I can remember the exact location." She stomped her foot on his. He smiled at her, and chuckled. "After Yoren gave you a spanking and before the Gold Cloaks."

The course after that was a plate of stuffed squab with cabbage and carrots. That reminded her of the day Tom, Lem and Anguy caught them stealing vegetables in the garden. With the wine flowing, meals well underway, and entertainment by Tom Sevenstrings and a hastily arranged puppet master who had his players perform a Dunk and Egg adventure in between courses, Arya was reminded of the royal feast held at Winterfell when King Robert and his retinue visited. Arya had been one of the main attendants, because she was her father's daughter, and she had been paired with little, fat Tommen. She remembered she had thought of Joffrey as a handsome boy, and that of course her perfectly beautiful sister Sansa could walk alongside the handsome prince, and that she Arya Horseface was to walk with the less handsome one. When she recollected her feelings, she realized how ridiculous it had been to take personal offense over it. But if anyone had told her back then that she would one day be sitting next to the handsomest man at court, let alone as his bride, she would have thought them liars. She watched Gendry laughing and clapping at the puppet play.

Her father had once said, _"You, will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords, and yes, perhaps even a High Septon."_ And she had answered, _"No, that's Sansa."_ And yet, here she sat, as honored guest at the royal court, on her own wedding feast, to the son of a king, and she herself had proposed and offered the marriage to him. Of course, Gendry was not the ruling king and he had no castle. But those were but details. Had he been legitimized before King Robert died and the truth about Cersei's children been known and no dragons born into the world again, Gendry might actually have been the king. So, her father's prediction was not that far off. She wondered what her father would have thought of all this, had he lived.

Gendry rested his hand on hers. "A golden dragon for your thoughts."

"I was thinking what my father's opinion would have been of all this," Arya confessed to Gendry, blushing a fetching pink.

He intertwined his fingers with hers, and chuckled. "Of you valiantly marrying a tried outlaw in shackles on a scaffold?"

She giggled. "Something like that, yes." Arya turned her head to look at him and the love in his blue eyes, and yet for some odd reason she was sure her father would have approved, and might have appreciated the irony of it all – shackles, scaffold and bastard outlaw included; except for the Night's Watch bit perhaps.

Arya sighed and picked up the chalice she had to share with Gendry and took a good swallow, as she watched the people around her. There was Queen Daenerys who was smiling at those seated at her table and conversing, but her smile never showed in her eyes, except for Missandei. _This is a lonely queen_ , she thought. Aegon sat next to her, with a scowl, along with his wife Arianne Martell who had smiled at her from afar a few times. Lord Edric Baratheon was seated at another table that he shared with his men Ser Gerold Gower, Ser Tristan of Tally Hall and Omer Blackberry. He played with his food while studying Gendry pensively. The likeness was uncanny – there could be no doubt they were related - although Lord Baratheon was younger, not as tall or burly and his ears were bigger and he wore a neatly trimmed beard. She had noted that when Lord Baratheon had congratulated them both - though his manners had been impeccable - he had made a point of it to show of his stag's sigil on his fashionable doublet with pride, and stressed the _Ser_ of Gendry's title without ever referring to Gendry as Baratheon. Meanwhile the young lord had included her Stark name as often as he could.

Of the Small Council, Varys was one of the few people present who seemed content, smiling and chatting. But Arya despised him with every fiber of her being, including her No One. At King's Landing, so many cats prowled the keep that she had chased enough of them to use their eyes and ears to find Lem and Tom. That was how she inadvertently had witnessed a young, tiny child – barely older than five or six - squirm their way into an impossible small airhole to get between two walls. Some were blind, deaf or maimed. As Blind Beth she herself had experienced how a handicap strengthened the other senses as compensation during her training in Braavos. She knew these had to be Varys' creatures, and she had wondered whether Varys had ever been trained with her guild. One night, when she could not sleep on account of Gendry being in a black cell, Arya had tried to use her own senses to feel whether some of them were spying on her. If she could get into the mind of a direwolf and cats, why not little children?

She had been apprehensive about jumping in the minds of another human being, and indeed the human mind resisted it greatly. Arya never managed to succeed longer than a few moments. The first time, it had worked on a passing laundry maid who was returning from some soldier's bed, her mind still full of their coupling. It had been but a fleeting glance into the woman's mind, and Arya had blushed furiously in shame, but she knew it could be done long enough to confirm someone's presence to her. And that is how she discovered a blind child locked in one of her walls, too big to leave its prison through the tiny passages Varys' little birds used and a deaf one trapped in the ceiling. They needed to pass on their reports through whispers in High Valeryan to other birds that collected what they saw or heard by passing the venting system and in exchange they received sustenance. When she discovered them, she had retched in horror. _No, Varys is not related to the guild._ The birds were enslaved and their injuries permanent. The one in her wall and ceiling would die. This cruelty went against the origin of the House of Black and White, and all their religion stood for. She was not at liberty to kill him herself. Varys had not been the name the kindly man had given her. But her guild could never fault her for answering the prayers of those who wished to die with her gift. The waif had taught her in the making of poisons, and she meant to make enough to clear the walls and ceilings of the poor caged birds.

The Hand of the queen, Tyrion Lannister, looked not as pleased as he had been that morning. He was leaning sullenly with his head on his elbow and well into his cups. He actually looked angry all late afternoon and evening already. Arya had no idea what could have caused this change, but she was sure he had received some news that he disliked greatly. Lord Commander of the Queen's Guard was Daario Naharis, easily recognizable with his three pronged blue beard and blue curly hair, matching his blue eyes. Compared to Daario's, Gendry's scowl appeared a caress almost. The man looked angry and petulant. It was as if the man could fly off the handle at first opportunity. Stocky Grey Worm was Lord Commander of the Dragon Guard and Ser Jorah Mormont Master of Laws. The Grand Maester was Qyburn, the leech man who had been with Roose Bolton after he took over Harrenhall. One chair was empty.

Most of the faces that Arya remembered of her days in King's Landing were unknown to her. But those she knew, like Qyburn and Varys gave her the strong impression that some things never really changed at all. A new queen, new heirs, but some of the advisors were the same. When they brought out duck with lemons next, Ser Richard Lonmouth commented it was his favorite, ever since a Dornish girl had made it for him once. _That's right_ , Arya thought, _Anguy shot down a duck that day and Lem hoped Sharna of the inn could prepare it with lemons_. Lem too sat with the Small Council, although she had no idea what his position was. She only knew he was a commander of one of the queen's many companies, as was Lord Baratheon.

When finally dessert was brought out, the servant placed a tart stuffed with nuts, fruit and cheese in front fo them. The moment she tasted it, she thought, _I've eaten a tart like this one before_. _Where had that been? Harrenhall!_ Hot Pie made exactly such tarts for Ser Amory and she had pilfered one once. "That's funny," Arya finally said.

"What is?" Gendry asked as he licked the crumbs of his half tart from his fingers.

"Every one of these meals we've eaten or prepared in the Riverlands."

"Huh?"

"We started with Weasel soup, then lettuce with raspberries,..."

"And figs," said Gendry. "We ate no figs in the Riverlands, and no duck with lemons either."

She ignored him. "But Lem wanted to have it prepared, and we did eat hunted rabbit even if you don't remember it, and I was called squab, and these," she pointed at half her tart, except for the bite she took, "were Ser Amory's favorite tarts."

Gendry shook his head. "That's just coincidence."

And yet, she was sure it was not. "Queen Daenerys," she said loud enough for everyone to hear. Conversation broke off and everybody looked at her. She coughed as she rose and raised the chalice. "I am very grateful for this feast, and that we have been welcomed. Thank you, Your Grace. It was a magnanymous gesture." The dragon queen smiled and blushed, especially when everybody else started to applaud, her wolf pack loudest of them all. "I do have a request, though."

"Yes?" said the dragon queen.

"I would like to personally thank the cook for all the wonderful food he prepared for us. It was as if I journeyed into my memory. Is it at all possible for him to appear?"

"Sure." Daenerys beckoned a servant and said, "Go tell my cook that the Princess of the North wishes to thank him."

And sure enough, a little later, a plump young man with straw-blonde hair appeared, with his head bowed and staring at his shuffling feet. "M'lady, m'lord."

"Hot Pie!" Arya squealed, clapping her hands together. "I just knew it had to be you!"

Gendry had sat erect immediately when Hot Pie had come before their table, shily. He jumped up, came from behind the table and hugged Hot Pie fiercely. "Seven hells, Hot Pie. You live! I thought you were dead. I went looking for you at Sharna's Inn, but it was burned down, just as the Crossroads Inn. How'd you escape?"

"No, idea, luck I guess. I was out to fetch an order for flour. Lem found me and took me along with him to Essos as his cook. How'd you escape?"

"Long story," Gendry said. He dragged a chair to their table and made him sit down with them.

Hot Pie admitted to have been in on Lem's and Tom's scheme and he had a menu prepared for a wedding feast, filled with hints of what they had lived through when they had been three. He eyed Arya shily. "I wouldn't have recognized you, m'lady. You've grown very beautiful with them long hair and dresses." He blushed red as a turnip when he said it, wringing his apron.

"Ain't she," Gendry beamed at her, his hand clapping Hot Pie's meaty shoulder.

"Stop it you two," she giggled. "You're making me shy, now."

"And you two are married," Hot Pie whispered. "Who'd have thought that? Good thing you had me to chaperone you two," he quipped. Still, the next moment he stared at Gendry in awe. "You're like a lord now, Gendry, married to a real princess, and the son of a king."

This time, Gendry was the one to color. "Just Gendry," he grumbled.

Right then, a late guest was announced, "Lord Peter Baelish of Harrenhall and Master of Coins."

Hot Pie excused himself, bowed and congratulated them again, and the both of them looked at one another. Some things could never be the same. Hot Pie would never regard them as just Gendry and Arry anymore. "Now you know what it feels like," she said to Gendry, "when people start to m'lady or m'lord you."

But Gendry's reply was cut short when a short, slender man entered the Queen's Ballroom, in grey attire with his mockingbird sigil. In contrast to the colorful court fashion, Baelish' costume looked plain, like Gendry's black. But to Arya, who had grown accustomed to the dress code of Braavos, Peter Baelish was dressed as a rich nobleman. She herself wore the blue-grey velvet dress from Braavos. _He was my mother's friend and he tried to help father too_ , Arya thought. His hair had more silver in it than she remembered. _Littlefinger – that's what some of the guards called him behind his back._

The handsome man with sharp features and pointed chin beard bowed to the queen before coming to her table where Gendry and she ate from one plate. He bowed, and Arya extended her hand to him. He took and kissed her hand. "Princess Arya Stark, you are a vision and I cannot tell you how relieved I am to discover you are alive and well." Arya smiled excited about seeing someone at court who had been a friend of her family. "And you, Ser Gendry Baratheon, I congratulate you on your marriage with this rare rose of the North." Gendry was less enthusiastic but thanked Lord Baelish formally. "I assume you saved her from the Wall when the Night's Watch refused to surrender the princess to Lady Sansa Stark?"

The assumption was a reasonable one, Arya knew, but something in the flicker of his gray-green eyes told her he already knew that the supposed Arya Stark never had been her. _Don't trust him_ , her No One told her.

"The Princess hid in Braavos, Lord Baelish," said Gendry in a low voice. _Gendry doesn't trust him either,_ her No One pointed out. "The Wall sent me to find her, after it became clear that Arya Stark never married Ramsay Bolton. That is why the Night's Watch could never surrender Ramsay's bride to her sister."

"What a relief," Peter Baelish smiled. _He lies._ "And now I understand why we are match in clothing, Princess." He leaned on the table. "My sincerest apologies for arriving this late. Queen Daenerys called me back from the Vale where I'm chief advisor of Lady Sansa by raven message to discuss the North. When I read that Princess Arya Stark was in King's Landing, I left as soon as may be. I did not yet dare to tell your sister this, fair Arya. She has been wretched over your separation ever since your honorable father was murdered by the Lannister usurpers. I wished not to lift her hopes up before I had seen you yourself. And she would never come to court herself, on account of all the horrors she had to endure by the monster Joffrey and of course the Queen's Hand." And then he leaned into Arya to whisper. "It was I who saved her from that marriage and smuggled her to the Eyrie to be safe with your late aunt and my late wife Lady Lysa. She pretended to be my daughter for several years, until Aegon got rid of the Lannisters." He smiled sweetly again. "But there cannot be any doubt – you look exactly as your aunt Lyanna. And I can promise you that I will do all that I can to support you and your sister in conquering the North. Though imagine my surprise to arrive at a wedding."

Her No One kept mumbling in her head not to trust this man, and yet he had gone beyond and endangered his own position to help her sister. Some of his words were truthful, like saving her sister, and yet at the same time he lied as well. Which were the lies and which was true, Arya was unsure of. _He's as good at this game as the waif_ , Arya thought. _And you are a wrench in his plans_ , whispered her No One.

The orchestra started to play songs to dance on and many lords and ladies stepped onto the cleared area at the center of the tables. Arya had never danced at a Westeros court, ever. Starfall did not count. Not until her training with the Black Pearl did she ever learn basic steps to music aside from Water Dancing. She still did not like dancing, but she wanted to be away from this man all of a sudden to sort her thoughts and impressions.

Just then Lord Baratheon approached the table and asked her, "Pray excuse me, Ser Gendry, but may I invite your wife, Princess Arya Stark, to a dance?"

She looked at Gendry, unsure whether this would be a good idea. "My wife is not a dancer, Lord Baratheon," he said.

"I learned some in Braavos, husband," she said. Gendry stared at her. "Perhaps I should practice. Would you mind?" She leaned in to whisper, "I want to talk with some people here, including this man who wonders how much of a rival my husband can be to him." Gendry turned his head to look deep in her eyes, and then he nodded. She gave him a kiss. She stood and let Lord Baratheon lead her onto the floor. "You must help me though," she told the lord. "I'm still a novice at dancing. So, forgive me if I make any mistake and embarrass you."

Lord Edric Baratheon smiled at her. His was a handsome smile, but he lacked Gendry's dimples. "I will do my best, princess. In truth, I don't think anybody expects those who lived in exile for so long to be great dancers. I lived in Myr myself for a long while. And the queen does not dance at all." He sighed. "This court is so new and changed and rarely is there a feast. They do not care about mistakes."

Initially it took all of her concentration to watch the steps and moves and temporary changing of partners, but she was getting better at it, apart from some embarrassing mistakes. But she was able to laugh about them, and the other dancers smiled at her for it. Luckily, her Water Dancing had trained her in acquiring moves to the mind and feet quickly and she received many encouraging smile. All in all, it was not that different, except no one was holding a sword.

"And how is it, to dance with a man who looks like your husband?" Lord Baratheon grinned.

 _He's bold,_ she thought. "Weird," she replied honestly.

"I can't but help wonder what would have occurred if I had sailed for Braavos instead of Myr during the wars?"

 _Very bold_. "You would have reminded me of my husband, Lord Baratheon."

"Oh?"

"Ser Gendry escaped King's Landing in my company, Lord Baratheon. I for fear of being taken a hostage by Queen Cersei, him for fear of being murdered by the Gold Cloaks as they slaughtered all of King Robert's bastards. You both lost many brothers and sisters. So, I knew him as a person many years ago, before I managed to flee to Braavos." Lord Baratheon frowned and seemed lost in thought for some while. "Did Queen Cersei try to have you killed as well?"

"Oh, no."

"But you mentioned you fled to Myr."

"Well, King Stannis' priestess Melisandre wished to sacrifice me for my king's blood. But his Onion Knight, Ser Davos, helped me escape. Later, I joined Queen Daenerys' army when she promised to retake Storm's End."

 _Melisandre_ , she though. There was that wretched red whore again. And yet, Arya wondered why Melisandre had not tried to sacrifice Gendry. He had king's blood as well. "I am relieved that this Melisandre did not succeed."

"You are?" Lord Baratheon said amazed. He glanced at Gendry who was being clapped on the shoulder by Hugo Wull.

Whatever was on Lord Baratheon's mind, Arya wanted to make clear what she had meant by it, without leaving any room of interpretation. "Yes, because my husband may otherwise have been forced to become Lord of Storm's End, and he would have hated that, and I would end up being Lady of Storm's End, which I could never consider as my home. Our home is the North, Lord Baratheon, and our sigil the direwolf, and he wears the Black." Before Lord Baratheon could take her message as an insult, she said smiling, "You are Lord of Storm's End, which is as it should be."

Lord Baratheon bowed to her and left the dancing floor, only to find her being accosted by Daario Naharis. "Princess?"

When first she had seen him walk the corridors of the Red Keep or seated that evening at the Small Council's table, Arya could see the outward appeal of the gaudy dressed man. His whole being seemed to scream _sex_ in an aggressive, dangerous sort of way. It reminded her of Khal Rakharo. It seemed to her that Queen Daenerys had a thing for dangerous men. "Ser Daario," she said.

The man laughed, and his laughter held an edge of contempt. "I'm no Ser, princess, but just plain Daario." He fetched her hand in a tight grip and basically dragged her through the movements of the next dance. And when he pulled her, whirling, to him, his hand went dangerously low to her hips and he made it very plain that he liked to stare into her bodice. But this time, she would not allow such a man to make her feel like a mouse again, not the way Rakharo had done. "You were quite impressive that day in the Court Room, princess."

"You like aggressive women then, Daario?"

She saw lust flare in his eyes and when the next step of the dance required them to meet, he actually dared to press his loins against hers. He was hard. "Very much so. I'm an aggressive man."

"I can tell," said Arya with cold eyes and stony face.

"Your outlaw looks like he can be aggressive too." Daario's blue eyes twinkled as he looked over her head at Gendry behind her. She refrained from looking back, but when she was better positioned, she saw Gendry glaring at them, while a drunken Tyrion took her empty seat.

"When provoked, yes" she said coolly, "But otherwise he's a generous man."

"Shall we provoke him then?" murmured Daario in her ears.

"As well as your Queen?" Daenerys was glaring at them just as well from her seat. When next she had the opportunity, Arya whispered in Daario's ear, "Your attempt to make the queen jealous has succeeded. You have no more need of me. She will surely take you to her bed tonight." She twisted her hand so his elbow was bent in a painful manner. "So, let go of me, and let's end our dance here." Arya added force to her twist, and he had to let her fingers slip. She curtsied and walked away from him.

She noticed Arianne Martell standing to the side, talking with Lord Dayne. She curtsied, "Your Grace."

"Princess Arya!" smiled Arianne. She had a deep olive tan, different than that of the Daynes. The Daynes were pale skinned, not unlike Arya, but tanned by the life in the Dornish sun. Arianne's was naturally darker. Her black hair fell in ringlets almost to her waist. And she had the dark eyes of men like the south of Essos. She knew Gendry would call her buxom – big breasted, curvy and wide, voluptuous hips and lips. Even her pregnancy looked luscious on her. And her modest cut of her silks could not dispel the idea that Princess Arianne was a highly erotic woman.

 _I like yours better_ , Arya remembered Gendry's words that day at the waterfall about her breasts. To her own surprise, Arya discovered she was taller than Arianne. "I'm sorry that what I said that day in the Court Room about the destruction in Dorne was so grievous."

Arianne's dark eyes became watery and she swallowed. "I should not have fled there. I called that destruction upon them."

"You wanted to protect your child," said Lord Dayne with understanding.

"And my home and people were burned and raped for it." She smiled at Arya. "You are much braver than I by coming here to reason with her."

"Why don't _you_ try to reason with her?" offered Arya.

Arianne smiled. "Queen Daenerys will let me return to Dorne to rebuild my home, once my child is born and she can have it being fostered here in King's Landing."

"With or without Aegon?"

"Without my husband. Queen Daenerys wishes to marry Aegon to settle the whole matter on whether he is a true dragon or a Blackfyre one." Then she leaned in closer. "But I will not miss him, princess. He was not always as inconsiderate, when he was hailed as a saviour, but ever since Queen Daenerys took the throne, he's been nothing but preoccupied with himself. In the past, I supposed gallant men guilt ridden by their conscious foolish and entitled men thrilling. But the latter, I have found, care little for their wives. It took the destruction of Dorne and this living as a hostage with a man who only cares about what he's owed and denied by his aunt to make me see I should have loved another who once died because of me." But not all fight had left the Dornish princess. "And if my _husband_ were to die because of some outrageous plan with dragons, I would not shed a tear, and take myself a second husband – a kinder one." Arianne's eyes, black as coals, glanced at Lord Dayne for a short moment, as if she was telling Arya that a man like Lord Edric Dayne would do very fine for that. Arya also took Arianne's last words as a hint that Aegon may be up to something.

Lord Dayne seemed to have some notion about Arianne's meaning and blushed. "Excuse me ladies," he bowed. "I see a chance to talk with Ser Richard Lonmouth."

She knew Ned had been there to help her with her plan to marry and save Gendry, and he still slept with her fourth handmaiden, who she basically regarded as Edric's handmaiden. She certainly never serviced Arya, and Arya was not even sure she remembered the girl's name. But his smile and eyes betrayed a feeling she had supposed to be long gone by now. _Does he still hope I take him for a second husband?_

And that reminded her of the many of Dorne's queer ideas. "Princess Martell, I wondered about something, and perhaps you may be of help to me. Is it correct that by Dornish law women are rightful heirs, just as men are? And that younger brothers have no priority in the succession than their elder sisters?"

"Yes. Do you wish to set aside your brother, Arya?"

"Oh, no. I was not thinking of such a thing. Besides, my older sister Sansa would come before me then. But I wondered whether your child would be named Martell or Targaryen?"

"Well, the queen does not recognize Aegon as Targaryen, only as Blackfyre. As the ruler of Dorne I have a higher political position than Aegon. Nor is he king, while Daenerys has her dragons. So, he stands lower than myself, and my child will be called Martell."

"Interesting," Arya nodded. "And what if Aegon were to become king?"

Arianne laughed. "That would make a mess of things."

She left the Dornish princess and returned to her seat. "Did you enjoy your dancing?" Gendry drawled.

"It was alright," she said, ignoring the jealousy coloring his voice. "You could always invite me to dance, of course."

Gendry snorted. "And when or where would I have learned such a thing?"

Arya looked at him and she could see by the tension of his shoulders and jaw that he was angry. She laid her hand on his. "I suppose nowhere. But I noticed my dancing allowed you to talk with several men here, as it allowed me to talk with people to learn more about this present court, which was my sole intention."

"And what did you learn, wife?" he growled more heatedly than she had expected of him, taking their chalice to down it. _Maybe it's the wine_ , she thought.

"I learned three interesting things today - that Lord Baratheon is wary of your legitimization." Gendry huffed at that and held the chalice in the air for a refill. She ignored it. "I set him straight on either of us wanting anything to do with Storm's End."

"Correct."

"I learned that Daario Naharis likes to play games to make Queen Daenerys jealous so she takes him to bed."

"Hah!"

"And I learned that Aegon may plan to steal one of the queen's dragons." The fourth she decided to keep to herself.

Gendry looked at her with wide eyes, his jealousy forgotten. "Did Princess Martell actually tell you that?"

Arya shook her head. "No, not in so many words. But she suggested it as a by the by."

"Lord of Light, this place is dreadful," he said. He lifter her hand and squeezed it. "I can't wait until we get away from here." Gendry leaned closer to her and said, behind his hand, hiding his speech from others, "When Lord Baelish introduced himself, I knew I had heard that name before, and not just as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands or Lord of Harrenhall which he acquired for his services to Queen Cersei. It deluded me for a while, who had mentioned me to him. But now I know. He was the one who instructed Jeyne Poole to pretend to be you in the first place."

"Perhaps he mistook Jeyne for me. He visited my father's office regularly, and Jeyne accompanied Sansa everywhere, while I had my water dancing instructions from Syrio Forel." Arya took the cup of wine that Gendry had set down on the table and took a sip.

Gendry shook his head. "Jeyne said he _trained_ her and cooked up the plan of the wrong identity. Besides," he added, "if he believed Jeyne Poole to be you, then why did he not attempt to get Jeyne to the Vale and reunite her with your sister Sansa?"

 _And there Gendry had a point_. "You should get into politics, husband," she grinned at him. "You always manage to get to the heart of the matter." She leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek. "So, what three things did _you_ learn tonight?"

He frowned at her, puzzled. "Is this some sort of game of yours?"

"Actually it sort of is - a game of the guild."

His blue eyes met hers. "Alright, I'll play along. I learned from Tyrion that Jaime has been moved to the more comfortable cells for highborn prisoners and is allowed to have visitors. The Imp is very angry about that. I guess he sought my sympathies over that." Gendry whispered, "Although he has no idea I suggested something like it to the queen."

Arya quirked her eyebrows. "Queen Daenerys heeds your advice already?"

"That's what she and I were discussing in the outer yard this morning, when you acted so jealous." He smiled at her.

And she rolled her eyes."I wasn't jealous."

"Sure," he smirked smugly. "I also learned that Richard Lonmouth – you know Lem – will advise the queen on sending his dragon company along with us, at least as far as the Twins."

"How many men has he under him?"

"Give or take something about ten thousand men."

Arya's jaw dropped. "We could smoke Lord Walder out of his seat, once and for all."

Gendry wriggled his eyebrows. "That would be the idea behind it, I suppose."

"And the third thing?"

Gendry flicked his eyes in thought. "Euhm… Euhm. Oh, I know. You're not as bad a dancer to look at as you make yourself out to be." She grinned and blushed. "So, I guess I won this game," he said smug.

She looked up dreamily at him. "If you say so."

"I know so!" but then he looked at her and noticed the way she was looking at him. He leaned in for a soft kiss, which evoked expressions of approval from those present. He glanced at the people in the ballroom looking at them with his lips still pressed on hers, then kissed her neck, and mumbled, "I think this would be our cue to leave for our room." He stood, "Come, wife."

And them standing was met by a cheer.


	25. The Scaffold King

Gendry turned off the square where the Street of Steel began, urging _Black_ with a kick of his heels not to fear the slickness of the snow on the cobblestones on its way up along the winding path of the hill. He passed the open forges, like the one he worked in Braavos. Sellswords and freeriders still haggled over mail shirts and the ironmongers still sold rusty old, bent blades and razors from their wagons. Nothing had changed in the blacksmiths' quarter the past five years, except there being snow on the cobblestones – most of it turned into black, wet and muddy puddles - and the roofs. The buildings grew bigger, the farther up he rode. Gendry rode to the top of the hill and halted _Black_ in front of the looming wooden and plaster house. He slid off _Black_ with his package and blinked as he stared at the double doors of weirwood and ebony with the hunting scene.

Of course when he was still an apprentice here, this was not the door he entered, normally. This was the way for the customers, not the boys and journeymen. But he still remembered the first time the hooded man with a purple velvet cloak with silver threads guided him here and told him, "You will be well fed here and learn a useful trade." That man did not know the back entrance, but used the front one, like a customer.

It had not been the beautifully carved door that had caught his interest then, but the two stone soldiers that stood sentry at the doors. Well, not the stone soldiers exactly either, but their fancy red colored steel armor making them griffon and unicorn. "Will I learn to become a knight here, like Dunk?" he had asked with hope to the man who had picked him up from the streets where he lived for a short while after his mother had died.

"No, boy, this is the best forge of the city, and the master will teach you how to use a hammer and make steel like that. Your father used to be great with a hammer, before he started to spend his days whoring and drinking. So, I'm sure you have a talent for it."

"Thank you," he had said, trying to hide his disappointment, before a servant girl ushered him in.

Gendry blinked and stared at those knights. The steel armor of the stone soldiers flanking the wooden doors was still as red as all those years ago. And that was because his master knew how to color steel without using paint or enamel. He had never worked in a forge as big as this after he fled King's Landing. Gendry reflected on the fact that when he worked here as a boy, he dreamed of becoming a knight like Dunk one day. Even if the man in his purple coat had told him he would learn to become a smith, he had regarded it as a chance to learn the skills to make his own armor and sword. His Bull helmet had been his first piece of personal armor that he had made. It was meant for himself, when the time would come he could be the Bull at tourneys, and the reason why he had refused to part with it when Lord Stark visited to ask his question. A sword had been his next plan, and he knew exactly what he would do with the steel that Tobho had given him for it.

Then he was sent off for the Wall. It had been a pity he did not have the chance to make his own sword, but men of the Night's Watch were like knights, warriors. So, that was not so bad. He could become a great warrior at the Wall. But then Dunsen stole his helmet and he was set back at work in Harrenhall's armory as a smith. The Bloody Mummers and the things he had seen from Ser Amory's attack on the village with Yoren and afterwards had finally made him realize that Dunk was nothing more than a hero out of a story. War was horror. War was ugly. And few of the men fighting had any honor and cared nothing for the little folk - not Ser Amory, nor Roose Bolton, certainly not the Bloody Mummers. Maybe that was why he listened to old Ben Blackthumb, who told him that war was nothing for the likes of them, to leave the fighting for the lords and scum, that a master armorer was respected by anyone and could always be secure of being able to provide for his family. It seemed the seven and fate were telling him, _you be a good 'pprentice smith_. He had been resigned to his fate.

And then Arya gave him no choice at all. She planned to escape Harrenhall with or without him. He was sure she lied about the Goat intending to cut off everybody's left foot, but he had seen that same resignation in her face as the time when she asked for his help to help the prisoners escape. First he did not want to help her at all. Then he told hmiself he had to or she would get herself killed, either by a guard or somewhere on the road. He told himself he had to protect her. The truth was that smithing at Harrenhall without her climbing through the window to see him, even when he was angry with her, just had no appeal at all. And then they ended up with the Brotherhood without Banners, and suddenly there was his chance to be a knight after all, even though it meant giving up on Arya - though most of his knighthood he worked as an armorer smith, anyway. It had been close to a year ago, since he had actually worked at a forge, at Braavos. Next, he had traveled over water, through canyons, across grasslands and marches all the way back to King's Landing, all the way back to Tobho Mott's forge. Strange, now that he had his heart's desire - knighthood and Arya - he missed the forge.

A servant girl wearing a white cap – a different one than then – looked around the door, gaped at him with open mouth, and then ran back in, shouting, "Master, it's the Scaffold King."

"Who?" He recognized his old master's voice.

"You know – the one that was to be beheaded and got married instead with the princess." Gendry lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. _So, that's what they call me in King's Landing – the Scaffold King. It does have a nice ring to it._

"Well, let him in, child. Oh, and fetch me the pitcher and two cups."

The girl raced back to the door a long moment after, lifted her apron and curtsied, "Come in, milord. The master will see you."

He smiled at her, and he saw her blush as she guided him in and looked behind her to see whether he was following. He could not remember whether he had ever made one of Tobho's household servant girls blush before. "It's just Ser, girl. I'm no lord." Although he could not fault her for thinking it, especially as he wore new, shiny black boots, a velvet doublet over his silk shirt, warm black leather gloves with fur inside, and his wolf fur cloak.

The servant looked aghast that he even talked to her, but just as he went into the room where Tobho Mott normally welcomed customers to make his sale pitch and haggle over the prices, she whispered, "How's the princess, Ser? I-I was there that day. I saw it! She looked so beautiful and in love, just like one of 'em stories. Is she happy?"

His smile widened. "Very happy, thank you." And the girl sighed before she ran off.

Gendry entered the parlay room with apprehension, but was shocked when he saw his master. He himself had seen and grown much in five years, but that was to be expected to happen to a boy of five and ten. His master seemed to have aged at least ten years in half as much time. His hair was thin. He could see blue veins on his scalp. His eyes seemed dark and hollow. He still wore his black velvet doublet and coat with silver embroidered hammers, but it all hung loose about his body, as if he had shriveled away. Varys had been correct. Tobho Mott himself could not work steel anymore.

Still, Tobho Mott mustered his sales smile and gestured towards a couch. "Please help yourself to some wine, good Ser, and sit." In the way he moved, Gendry instantly realized aghast that Tobho's eyesight was much impaired. "I am Tobho Mott, my lord, please put yourself at ease. If you are in need of new arms, you have come to the right shop. My work is costly, and I make no apologies for that, but you will find no better craftmanshop than this one in whole of the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you. Do you wish colored armor or sword? I know how to put color in steel and it will stay in there forever. How may I be of service to you, lord, and can you tell me your name?"

Still in shock, Gendry sat down on the couch, with his package on his lap. _He's blind or half blind. He doesn't recognize me at all._ Finally he gathered the courage and his wits to speak. "I have come for the forging of a Valyrian greatsword, master."

Tobho smiled. "You have heard of my ability then?" But then his smile faded. "Alas, I cannot do it myself anymore. I know the spells, but I am near blind and I've been greatly ill the past year." He coughed. The noise came from deep down his lungs. "While I have the best apprentice boys in the city who can do all that I told you, alas none have the mind and gift to forge Valyrian steel." Tobho cocked his head. "Your voice sounds familiar to me. Pray do I know you, lord? Have I serviced you before? My servant girl only told me some silly story."

"Yes, master Mott, we know each other. I worked here until five years ago as an apprentice, until you sent me to the Wall."

"Gendry," Tobho whispered, and he extended his hands towards the couch from across the table, as if he wanted to touch him.

"Indeed, master." Gendry stood, bowed and brought his face near enough for his old master to feel.

He could see the wonder in the man's face and the touch was a kind, reverent one. He remembered Tobho scolding him and being stern most of the time, even sometimes clouting him. But the man had been like a father to him, the only man he ever had any emotional attachment to in that way. "Oh, my boy, you made it then to the Wall. They didn't manage to kill you."

Gendry swallowed. Tobho had often called him  _boy_ , but never _my boy_. "Yes," he whispered. "I actually did make it to the Wall. It took me several years. They hunted me, but they never found me. I was a prisoner for a while, then I was an armorer in Harrenhall for both Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton. After that I smithed for Ser Beric Dondarrion in the Riverlands, to then become a recruit for the Night's Watch and was then sent on a mission to Braavos where I worked for another master in an open forge, and came back here."

Tobho Mott's sinewy pale hands with brown colored patches and blue thick veins, squeezed his shoulder. "You were the best apprentice I ever had, boy, and a very good lad – although you had a big mouth. But they would have killed you."

"Could you teach me, master? Could I learn to work Valyrian Steel?"

"You were as stubborn as that bull helmet of yours, but you were never dumb and you had a feel for steel. If there was ever one I thought I could teach it, it was you."

"Name your price, master Tobho."

"None," said Tobho. "But the price that you work with me and listen to me, and tell me every day something of your journeys and adventures." The man smiled. "Had you been able to remain here, I would have groomed you to become the new master here. I would have taught you all my secrets." Gendry's jaw dropped, because the boy he had been then would never have imagined that the master had that much faith in him. And yet, perhaps he was grateful that he had been forced to leave. He would never have known Arya otherwise, never had been thrown in the circumstances where he would choose the warrior's path. "So, what is this thing about the Scaffold King the servant girl mentioned to me?"

Gendry chuckled. "Well, the servant told you the truth," and he told about how he was arrested on the evening of his arrival in the city and put in the black cell and found guilty for outlawing in the Riverlands and was to lose his head over it, until the princess he was sworn to claimed him for a husband, and so he was married on the scaffold. And the reason he supposed they called him the Scaffold King was because the dragon queen had also legitimized him and gave him his father's name.

Tobho Mott laughed. "Well, who'd have believed such a thing five years ago - my boy Gendry married a princess. You've done far better yourself than becoming master of Tobho Mott's shop. And which princess is this? I can hardly keep up with who's who these days. There have been as many kings and queens on the throne as the years that have gone by."

"Princess Arya Stark, master."

The old master gasped. "The Hand's own daughter!" Then he smirked. "He would have killed you yourself I think if anyone would have predicted him such a thing on the day he came to visit and wanted to see you. An honorable, but a harsh man, that… and a traitor." Then the master shrugged his shoulders. "Or perhaps not. He told me that day, that if you ever wanted to wield a sword instead of making one, I should send you to him; said that you had the look of the warrior, more than a smith. And he knew who's bastard son you were. Looks like he was right, and I was wrong."

Gendry took Tobho Motts two hands in his own and clasped them tightly. "I think my wife would appreciate hearing her father's opinion about me."

"Hmmm," said the old man, freeing one hand and patting Gendry's. "So, you want to make a greatsword out of Valyrian steel. I hope you have enough of such precious steel to make one."

"I do," said Gendry and went to the couch to retrieve his package. He laid it out on the table and opened the cloth. He took Tobho's hands and guided them along the blades as well as the pommel and hilt. "These are the two swords you forged out of Ice on Tywin Lannister's request."

Master Mott looked stricken and swallowed. "How did you get your hands on those two swords," he whispered.

"Jaime Lannister, he gave them to Arya Stark in Braavos. He cannot bear the thought of his father stealing an ancestral sword of a house that was brought down not by being traitors, but by his own family having been nothing but liars and thieves. Arya was more horrified by it than anything else she ever saw, and that includes her own father's beheading. She even forced me to rework the pommel of Widow's Wail in Braavos already, or she would have hacked it off."

"You sound angry, Gendry."

He realized he was. "I guess I am." In Braavos those two swords had meant nothing to him, although he could plainly see they meant the world to Arya. He had asked her back then to help him understand one day, and somehow she had. What mattered to her, mattered to him.

Tobho Mott's hands felt the hilt of Widow's Wail. "What is this?"

"A hilt, like a bravos sword, instead of a pommel. It protects the hand. Saves you from wearing a gauntlet."

"I know what a hilt is, Gendry. I'm a master after all. But a hilt on a longsword?"

"I developed a sword that combines the blade of a longsword with the hilt of a rapier in Braavos. I call it a broadsword."

Master Mott frowned as his fingers trailed the hilt he made. "You made it in the shape of a heart."

He blushed and was glad his old master could not see how much he blushed. "Yes," he croaked. _She told me to make something beautiful._ And he had tried. And yet, despite the love and the work he had poured in that hilt less than a year ago, he now shared Jaime's and Arya's horror about Ice's fate.

"We cannot exactly remake Ice. Valyrian steel has a memory. The separation into two blades and the paths they had is part of that memory, as well as the love you poured into the hilt for one of them."

Gendry closed his eyes and sighed. "It's important, master Mott," he whispered. "And not just for the sake of personal feelings about a sword of a dead father." Gendry stood and walked to the door to close it. He hunched down beside his old master and whispered in his ear. "We have reason to suspect it will be of importance against the coming of the Long Night."

Master Mott nodded. "I see. Well, we can make a greatsword of it and call it Ice."

"How long will it take?"

"A month I'd say," said the old master.

"When can we start?"

"Come round tomorrow again, along the back door."

And so the following morning he came again through the back door. The servant of the day before let him in and his old master was waiting for him in the narrow yard. Before he continued he handed his fur cloak, his gloves, his doublet and his shirt to the girl. It was chill to stand with his naked chest in the winter morn, but he knew what heat he would step into soon enough. Tobho Mott laid his hand on Gendry's arm while Gendry led the master smith to the stone barn where the work was done. An apprentice smith of six and ten opened the doors, and the enormous heat blazing at him threw him instantly back to his youth. This was not some open forge with a hearth, small bellow, an anvil and a bucket of water. It was a giant mouth of hell as hot as the breath of a dragon. Some young apprentice boys were already hard at work at the bellows for the fire. But there was nobody else working - none of the older apprentices and certainly no journeymen armorers.

"Boy," said Master Mott to the apprentice who had opened the doors. "Be gone now. This is not for you." The apprentice glared at Gendry who finally realized that Tobho Mott had emptied the forge of prying eyes on purpose. "And stop scowling!" said Tobho Mott. Gendry grinned. His old master might have nearly lost his eyesight, but he knew his apprentice boys. And indeed Master Mott leaned in and said to Gendry, "He fears that you – a stranger - will get my shop, instead of him. He's stubborn and insolent, like you were." Tobho Mott waved his hand. "Agh, I'll leave him my forge and my shop. You have a princess. So, you'll have to settle for that. He could never in his life work Valyrian steel, though. So, I will pass the knowledge on to you. And him knowing I did so, will keep him on his toes for a while longer, so he doesn't get too cocky. You brought the swords with you?"

"Yes?"

"First let's remove the handles, hilts, rubies, gold, pommels. Melt it all down."

Gendry rolled his eyes, grabbed a leather apron, and instructed the boys at the bellows what he needed, so he could melt it all. He stared for a moment at the hilt of Widow's Wail to have a last reminder of it committed to memory, but it went with the other gold and common metal. She was his wife – her true heart was what mattered, not the golden one. By late morning, the blades were bare.

"Let's go have lunch," said Master Tobho then, "and a story about the Scaffold King."

"It's still early," said Gendry.

Though he was old and nearly blind, Tobho Mott could still make a face that told him not to argue with him. "I told you Valyrian steel has memory. Give them time to adjust of being removed from any sigil, symbolism and meaning. They need time and rest to shed their identity."

So, he joined his old master to the common room and had a lunch of bread and roasted ham with spiced wine. And he decided to just start with the beginning, about a fat boy and a blonde boy pestering a small scruffy boy with a little sword that looked more useful as a skewer for a shish-kebab than an actual sword. That scruffy boy was all too ready to stick anyone with the pointy end of its needle who threatened to take it away though. Although the scruffy boy was the youngest and the tiniest, he beat up those two bullies with a wooden practice sword. And after that, the two bullies were too afraid to go near the scruffy boy again.

By then the servant girl, Annie, had seated herself to listen and the apprentice boys had poured in for lunch as well. Gendry told them of the trek to the Riverlands, of many people riding the other way on wagons with all their animals and vegetables from their gardens, fleeing the wars. Gendry was not talking to Tobho Mott anymore, but to the apprentice boys who had been eating and munching their luncheon and listening with big eyes at him.

When he mentioned how riders came and the scruffy boy hid, but it turned out they were actually looking for him - because evil Queen Cersei wanted him - the littlest of the boys asked, "Why did the evil Queen want you?"

"Because he was the king's bastard son, silly, and none of her own children were the king's," said the elder apprentice who Tobho Mott had shooed away from the forge. He was leaning against the doorpost, looking bored and annoyed.

They all stared at him wide eyed. "Well, yeah, but I did not know that at the time," he explained. _Or I did not want to know._

"But you escaped, right?" asked a second boy.

"The first time there weren't enough riders to win any fight against us. But the second time a Lannister army came. And they killed almost everyone, except Lommy, Hot Pie, the scruffy boy, an orphan girl called Weasel and me. We escaped through a tunnel. But there was something funny about the scruffy boy."

"What?"

He told them how he noticed the boy sneaked away from their train of men and boys and he never saw the little boy take a piss, long before the riders ever showed, and the boy would not wash either – smelling hours in the wind. Why would a boy sneak off to take a piss, he had wondered. They all shook their heads – they had no idea why the scruffy little boy would do such a thing.

"Because it wasn't a boy, but a girl," said the elder apprentice sullen.

"Was it like Robby says?" asked the second youngest.

The boys looked to Gendry for confirmation. "Exactly. Arry wasn't a boy, but a girl."

"But why was she dressed as a boy?" asked the youngest.

"Well, Lommy, Hot Pie and me were pretty harmless. But there were older men, even criminals in a cage – murderers, thieves and rapists."

"What's a rapist?" asked another boy while he was chewing on his bread.

While Gendry thought of an answer, Robby said, "It's like when your mum and dad make noise in their cot, but a rapist isn't married and forces a woman or a girl while she doesn't want to."

 _I guess that answer works_ , thought Gendry. "Yeah. Arry dressed like a boy, so the mean and dangerous men wouldn't know she was a girl and wouldn't rape her."

"It was the princess, wasn't it?"

"How'd you know that?" asked another boy.

"Well, Arry sounds like Arya."

"But how can a girl look like a boy? They have long hair and boobs," asked a third one.

"She had cut off her hair and she was too young to have boobs," said Gendry. "She was just a little younger than Annie here."

"Oh." The third boy looked at Annie and squinted. It took little imagination to assume the boy was trying to visualize Annie with short hair and boy's clothes. Annie blushed.

"Anyhow, I didn't know Arry was Arya of course. I thought she was just a little girl dressed like a boy. Until one day Arry and I scouted a village after our escape from the murderous army and I told her I knew she was a girl. She denied it, until I asked her to prove to me she was a boy, which she couldn't. And when I asked her real name, she told me she was Arya Stark, who's father had been beheaded by the evil Queen. That's when I learned the scruffy, smelly boy that scared bullies was actually a highborn lady."

The boys and Annie the servant girl were smiling at him. "So, is that when you fell in love with her?" asked Annie with a sigh. Robby rolled his eyes and waved his hand as if to say it was a load of horsedung.

Gendry chuckled. "No, not exactly. It's just the story of how the princess and I met, both on the run from the evil Queen."

"But you wanted to protect her, right?" said the boy he thought was called Tommen.

Gendry got up and ruffled Tommen's blond mop of hair. "Yes, I did." In fact he had felt protective of her from the start, and it never really had gone away. "Come on, let's go, we have work to do."

The boys ran to the forge shouting and crying amongst themselves who was to be Gendry, Lommy, Hot Pie or Arry, and he saw master Mott smiling. He helped the man back to the forge. Tobho Mott instructed the boys to get the fires as hot as possible, and asked Gendry for the bare blades. In High Valyrian he started to say incantations before the the metal was to be melted. He had Gendry repeat them several times until he knew them by heart.

"The previous spells that bonded the steel to its present form must be lifted. Without those incantations Valyrian steel won't melt."

He had to do it for each sword separately, and then another incantation was needed to mix both boiling liquids into one pool. And each step required resting time. It was nightfall already, with the apprentice boys yawning at the bellows, when they finally could pour the liquid steel in the mold of a greatsword. That too required several spells, for the steel to gather in the mold, to rest and to become solid once more. Each day, he returned to start folding and hammering the steel, each time with different spells – for the hardening, for the reheating, for the folding, for the coloring, for the sharpening, for protection against fire, against ice, over and over, again and again. And every day he told a bit of his story, which most often included Arya's story. And as Gendry worked, he needed master Mott less and less to be there to guide him. Though he did not know High Valyrian and could not translate the meaning of the incantations, he knew which one to use more and more, gradually shaping the sword into perfection, after a vision what the sword needed to become. The making of that vision felt like a song, a song about _Winter is coming_ , about the North, and a family torn apart, a boy and a girl arguing on the road, a young King winning every battle but murdered at a wedding table along with his mother and men, two boys escaping a sacked home presumed to be dead but having been seen nonetheless, a girl crying tears in the castle that was her prison and torment but escaping, and a cousin born out of love and war sleeping at a Wall - a song of _Ice_.


	26. The Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing means a game of thrones and political scheming.

Shortly after Arya's wedding, Queen Daenerys organized a meeting, involving the small council and several other representatives of the power houses of Westeros - Princess Martell for Dorne, Lord Baratheon for the Stormlands, Lord Willas Tyrell for the Reach, and of course Tyrion was the overlord of the Westerlands. Only those missing were the Ironborn and the Freys of the Riverlands. Though Lord Baelish had been the high lord of the Riverlands under Queen Cersei, Queen Daenerys had given it to the Freys after they helped stop King Stannis from getting South and ultimately had helped the dragon queen in defeating him. But Arya was glad she was not required to meet an envoy from Lord Walder Frey at the meeting, just as she was about the Ironborn. The other person Arya had expected to be there was Aegon, but he was absent. Perhaps, she guessed, that was because he was lord of nothing. Arya knew most people present by name and sight already, except for Lord Tyrell, who had been called to court after Arya's first appearance, like Lord Baelish. He was a handsome, tall, slender man with long brown, flowing hair and golden eyes, and a short kept beard, after the same fashion as Lord Baratheon. Arya could see he resembled his late brother Ser Loras, but not as muscled, probably on account of his crippled leg. Nor did he have Loras' air of aggressiveness. He smiled friendly at Arya and gestured at the empty seat beside him for the council.

"Welcome all," Queen Daenerys greeted them in the council's room. "I have called this meeting in order to discuss peace terms and strengthening of the realm. Princess Arya Stark spoke of the destruction done to Dorne and the Reach during my conquest, and clearly stipulated that either I could enforce my rule through further destruction and conquest, or form alliances, make peace and give the seven kingdoms the highly needed room to rebuild. The war is over and I want peace. Winter is still encroaching southwards day by day. It is for this reason I have all invited you. We should discuss how we can rebuild my kingdom. As you will note, almost all the representatives of each region are present. Lord Baelish speaks for Lady Sansa Stark of the Vale and Princess Arya speaks for the North."

Lord Baelish asked, "And why is House Frey not here to speak for the Riverlands?" Arya made a note of it that nobody asked about House Greyjoy.

"It will become apparent during this meeting why House Frey is not present," the queen said and waited a moment before she continued. "Or House Greyjoy, for that matter," she said with a bitter tone. "There are three regions and people that need discussing - the Riverlands, the North that calls itself independent, and the chaos amongst the Ironborn. Since princess Arya brought this need forward to my court, I would like her to state her opinion on the Riverlands and North first." The queen seated herself at the head of the table, but not without rubbing her brow.

Arya had not immediately expected to be the first to speak and needed to gather her thoughts before she stood, and she was relieved she had went all male attire for this meeting – boots, britches and jerkin in boiled leather, and her hair in a braid. It was getting very long now. She had been wondering before the mirror to cut it back to chin length again, or even shorter, hell even razor short as when she had for a while at the House of Black and White, but Gendry liked to coarse his hands through her hair, lift a lock to his lips, or twist it in his hand as he hungrily crushed his mouth on hers just as he released all self control. She liked the feel of it too much when he did any of those things, so, she found herself unable to put shears in her hair.

She said, "Queen Daenerys' conquest has solely been the last war after many the past five years. The war began in the Riverlands. And while most other regions have seen devestation, the respective Houses that have always reigned over their region still maintain that power." Arya indicated Willas beside her. "The Tyrells of Highgarden for the Reach, the Martells for Dorne, the Lannisters for the Westerlands and through my sister Lady Sansa Stark, her baby son Robb Hardyng, heir of House Arryn for the Vale. But it is not so for the North or the Riverlands. While my brother King Rickon Stark has resurfaced, he is still not seated in Winterfell and there is an effective power vacuum. Nobody rules the North, and everyone looks after themselves." Arya took a breath before continuing, "In the Riverlands House Frey is the official ruling House, but they care nothing for the region they rule. Rebellion can spark at any time which cannot surprise anyone since they gained their power through one of the gravest sins – the breaking of guest right. If peace is desired, then House Tully must regain its original seat to rule, and the Freys ought to be contented with Lord Edmure's possible future heir by Roslin Frey. I cannot do this on my own, neither the North, nor the Riverlands, which is why I came to King's Landing." Not knowing what more could be said, Arya sat down.

Lord Baelish watched her with a smile and nodded encouragingly, and yet Arya noted that smile did not reach his eyes. Those eyes spoke of shrewdness and contemplation. Meanwhile Lord Baratheon muttered something about half of his lands being in the hands of the Dothraki and questioning what the Riverlands or the North had anything to do with him.

But Princess Arianne Martell looked at her with some admiration and rolled her eyes at Lord Baratheon. "While neither the Riverlands nor the North seem to be of Dorne's concern, I have spoken plenty with Lord Dayne as well as his men and women regarding the present state of Dorne and that of the Riverlands and the North." Arya realized Princess Martell knew some about Edric Dayne's visit of the Isle of Faces. "And I feel that Westeros, and thus Dorne, is in danger without the restoration of the Starks in the North as well as House Tully in the Riverlands." Arianne had effectively told Arya she would not interfere with Lord Dayne's involvement in her quest.

Lord Tyrell had been leaning on his elbow during Arya's speech. He lifted his head and dropped his hand flat on the table. "The Reach is not yet fully at peace, with the Oakhearts seeking war with House Dayne, but together with Princess Martell, Lord Dayne and myself, the Reach and Dorne could squelch any further trouble between our regions and still ensure some amount of harvests for Westeros. We would not be in any need of reinforcement beyond the Dothraki barrier that Queen Daenerys has already installed to ensure peace in the Marches. So, a dragon army sent to the Riverlands and the North to finally restore peace there would not be against the Reach's interests. Even though the Riverlands is enduring a harsh winter and cannot sow, the Reach could never fill the demands of food for the whole of the kingdom. And personally, I find it offensive and nauseating that such a house as that of Frey is on equal status as my own. The Reach and House Tyrell backs Arya's request to remove House Frey from its current status as overlord of the Riverlands and install her brother at Winterfell. We would be willing to help with food provisions to help the Riverlands get back on its legs."

Queen Daenerys looked at Tyrion. "Lord Tyrion, you are my Hand, lord of the Westerlands - which is a neighbor of the Riverlands – and it was your father who gave House Frey their effective power. What are your thoughts?"

Tyrion's scar marked and twisted face betrayed nothing. He eyed Arya seriously. "The Westerlands and my house benefited greatly by my father's arrangement with Lord Walder Frey. Princess Arya's brother Robb Stark reaped the Westerlands with great success during the War of the Five Kings, and would have been unstoppable without House Frey switching sides. However, it has not brought actual peace in the Riverlands, and House Frey still requires whole Lannister legions to prevent other houses of the Riverlands rebelling against them and delve the Riverlands in civil war again. House Frey rules through Lannister occupation only and even now is still unwilling to deploy its own army for it, after King Stannis destroyed the Frey bannermen in the North. Meanwhile the Westerlands need those same Lannister legions to return home and defend the Westerlands against the Ironborn, who turned on our alliance after your husband's disappearance, Your Grace." Tyrion's black and green eye turned to Arya. "If Princess Arya can speak with certainty for her uncle Lord Edmure Tully and guarantees there will be no more retaliation against the Westerlands and Lannisters for my father's morally questionable tactics to win his war in the past, then I too consider a restoration of the old powers both in the Riverlands and the North is to the benefit of House Lannister, the Westerlands and the Realm."

A part of Arya itched for revenge, since the Lannisters were the main culprits in bringing down her father and murdering her brother Robb and her mother. But she knew that those most responsible for it were dead already. Tyrion himself had murdered Tywin and Joffrey, and Jaime had strangled Cersei. House Clegane was no more either. Arya did not trust Tyrion as she did Jaime, despite Jaime's confession of being the cause of crippling Bran, but if he was willing to let go of the past, then perhaps she ought to as well. Arya answered him with a slow nod. "I will vouch for my uncle and myself that I will not seek revenge for the crimes committed by the Lion's father, sister and cousin."

Queen Daenerys smiled with calculating violet eyes. "That only leaves Lord Baelish to speak for the Vale."

During the course of the meeting, Lord Baelish's smile had disappeared from sight. But as soon as all eyes were directed towards him he spoke eloquently, pleasing and to the point. "There could be no doubt about Lady Sansa's allegiance to her family. She would as much have both the houses of her father as well as that of her mother reinstalled."

"That settles that matter, and now Lord Baelish I am sure I do not need to explain anymore why House Frey was not called to this meeting," said Queen Daenerys. "The Iron Throne hereby is willing to give what Princess Arya desires from me – an army. This leaves us to consider the details. House Frey holds the Twins, which I need. They helped to halt King Stannis on his march to King's Landing. I therefore cannot openly send an army under the dragon banner to the Riverlands, nor the Twins." Daario Naharis sat up from his chair, his facial expression showing nothing but annoyance, because it meant he could take no part in this march of Daenerys' army. Daenerys laid her hand on his to keep him in his seat. "Ser Richard Lonmouth knows the Riverlands like his back pocket and Lord Walder Frey would think that he defected for House Stark if he is to lead the army I'm willing to send." Lem wringed his hands together in anticipation. "Princess Arya, it is said that you once had a direwolf called Nymeria?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"So, I think it fitting to send ten thousand with you, and they will carry your sigil for their banners. If you succeed to reinstall House Tully over the Riverlands, and convince Lord Tully to bend the knee to me, then my army under the lead of Ser Lonmouth will accompany you to the North. This too will happen under the banner of the Starks, for I will not risk the North to think I am invading them and provoke them into attacking the Twins and Lord Tully to join them in the Riverlands." Queen Daenerys' face was stern and hard as marble. "You offered me peace and unification, so, I'm counting on you to deliver it to me. If I learn that you want to double cross me, I will personally ride Drogon, burn what is left of Winterfell to ashes, and leave no Stark alive."

Arya sighed, both in relief as well as disappointment of her threat. Although Gendry had told her that Lem had already informed him about the queen's desire to send this big a tally of soldiers to the North, she was relieved to hear it from the queen own words. But she guessed that Queen Daenerys had no political reasons to trust her completely . In the end, she could not fault the dragon queen for wanting Arya to uphold her end of the bargain. "I thank you, Your Grace, and I will remember your threat."

"Now, for that other matter," the queen said with great reluctance, and sighed. "The Ironborn."

Lord Tyrell's and Arianne's face hardened with the mention of them. It had been Ironborn ships that had brought the dragon queen's army to Westeros, in exchange for her marrying Euron Greyjoy who had bonded Rhaegal to himself. How he had done that, nobody knew. But there had been eye witness accounts of a green dragon flying across Westeros before it was even known that Queen Daenerys sailed for Westeros. Euron had been the dragonrider who had destroyed so much in Dorne and the Reach, and he had been brutal and he used dark powers. Her alliance with the reaving Ironborn, Euron's ruthlesness and the pillaging Dothraki hordes had made her into a queen feared and hated. But Euron was not at court and he had not been seen for months. It was rumored that the dragon queen had him killed by Daario. Or perhaps, Arya thought, Daario killed him on his own out of jealousy. However, with Euron missing or dead, the Ironborn fleet of the dragon queen had turned on the Westerlands, Queen Daenerys' strongest ally with Erik Ironmaker claiming to be the Iron King now, on account of his marriage to Asha Greyjoy.

"We should count my husband Lord Euron Greyjoy as dead. Rheagal has returned riderless." She eyed the council warily. "I would be lying if I were to claim I will mourn him. His brother Victarion died in Mereen and the other brother Aeron was never found after he went missing several years ago. We need to be united against the Ironborn fleet, and I want Asha Greyjoy found."

"She would be in the North, Your Grace," Qyburn said. "The last reports of her place her in the North as a captive of the late King Stannis." He looked at Arya. "You would do well, Your Highness, to inquire with your Mountain men."

"I will," she said. Theon the Turncloak's fate she knew of already. Her Northern men had confirmed that Theon had been beheaded in front of Winterfell's heart tree. King Stannis had wanted to burn him for Rh'llor, but in the end he opted to honor the Stark tradition, in order to keep the Northern men with him to war in the South. 

"Your Grace can always burn the Ironborn fleet with Drogon," suggested Princess Arianne without fully being able to hide her resentment.

"I could," Queen Daenerys sighed. "But I would rather try to and bring the fleet back under the Kingdom's power, rather than rebuild one from scratch. Lord Baratheon's Storm fleet is still little as is that of the Lord of Casterly Rock. Any other suggestions?"

The kingdom without a fleet was a serious problem. Arya knew the North had enough wood to build a large fleet, but she was unwilling to offer it, when she could use it as a bargaining chip in the future. Besides, she was not in the North yet. At the moment if would be an empty offer.

"No?" Queen Daenrys eyed every one at the council table who remained silent. "Then this meeting has come to its end. Thank you lords and princesses." Queen Daenerys stood, and everyone present followed her example, and then she strode briskly out of the council room with Missandei and Daario – who was talking to her in heated language - in tow, whereas Lem jumped up with a grin. Before he left the room, he said to Arya, "They will finally pay for all they've done."

Lord Tyrell approached her, limping and supporting himself with a cane, and yet did so with a surprising dignity. He asked whether he could have a word with Arya for a moment, and took her to the side of the room. "We probably will not see each other for a long while yet," Lord Willas began, "So, I wish you every success with your effort and so does my grandmother, Lady Olenna. She always thought highly of your father and Sansa. In fact, her and my sister once tried to broker an alliance between our families and save Lady Sansa of the Lannister clutches through marriage between herself and me. And if it had not been for Sansa warning Margaery, my sister would have been bedded by a monster. Alas Tywin's interference prevented us from ever becoming family. Once that arrangement fell through, my grandmother helped a certain somebody in doing away with the monster and rescue your sister. Unfortunately, I have no army to spare anymore and Lady Sansa is forever tied to the Vale, but I wanted you to know that in heart and mind the Reach stands behind you and your sister."

Arya blinked at Lord Tyrell. Was she hearing this right? Had the Tyrells conspired in the murder of King Joffrey, despite the marriage with Lady Margaery? Had they helped Sansa to get away? She appraised Willas and tried to imagine him for Sansa. Arya remembered Sansa's crush for Loras, and though Willas lacked Loras' prowess, he was handsome despite his crippled leg, and Sansa might actually have been way happier with this kind and elegant man. The man himself still seemed to think it a great pity the match never came to anything. She laid her hand on his. "I will remember your kind words, Lord Tyrell, and please offer my thanks for my sister to Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery."

Lord Willas smiled at her sadly. "I never get to see my sister anymore. After her degrading trial by the High Sparrow and King Tommen's death she joined the Silent Sisters. I guess three husbands who died not long after marrying her broke her spirit. I will remain at court for a while yet for any food orders you may have for the Riverlands." Lord Tyrell bowed and limped away.

Lord Baratheon approached her as well. "My apologies if I came across as unwilling to help with your cause, Your Highness. But Ser Richard Lonmouth has five hundred longbow men from the Marches of mine under his command. I hope that satisfies your notion of the Stormlands standing behind you."

"Yes, thank you, Lord Baratheon," she smiled as a courtesy.

Next, Lord Baelish accosted Arya, urging her to come see him in his main establishment in the city the following day, leaving her with the address. She ventured there with Asher and Brandon Tallhart, and she cocked her eyebrows once she realized what sort of establishment Peter Baelish had invited her into. As she was led upstairs by one of the men who was there to kick unruly customers out if need be, she had a glimpse of a shrieking, giggling naked pair of jiggling breasts and a man as naked as on his nameday running after her. A door was opened and she was led into a very comfortable office, complete with pillowed benches and bed and all the textile furnishing of Lys. Lord Baelish let go of the two half naked women in his lap, who smiled at her, and welcomed her into his humble office. With a slight of hand, the two whores left the office through another door, taking one last peek at her, before they disappeared, laughing.

"Ah, dear princess, it is good that you have come. My apologies for the informal scene you just stepped into."

If he had thought to shock her, she measured him instead with a slightly amused smile of her own. "Informal as it was, I doubt it was unplanned."

Their eyes met, both calculating and nothing but a social smile plastered on their face. "Perhaps, you've got me there, princess." He waved at a couch. "Please sit. Shall I order some wine? I have some of the best Arbor gold."

"Plain water will do, Lord." Before she took the offered seat, she wiped her hand across the couch to assure her of its cleanliness, sat down and crossed her legs. Not long after, a woman dressed in see-through dress barely covering anything appeared with a tray of water, freshened with a squeeze of lemon. "So, you wished to converse with me, and what can it be about that could not be said in the Red Keep?"

"I must confess, Princess Arya, that I am completely baffled by you. I remember people complaining about your unruliness and unladylike manners, but you can act very much the lady, even in britches and jerkin and two swords hanging from your sword belt. You come across as very cultured and worldly, but without showing shock about these type of establishments." He smiled like a cat who had licked the milk. "It would have pained your mother to see you so."

She felt the jab, but she shed it before it could become an emotion. "On the contrary, I think my mother would have found me improved. But I never was like my sister."

"Yes, I can see that, plainly." Then he waved his hand as if wanting to distract her and dispel any suspicious feelings of her for him. Arya knew he did it on purpose. It was a type of hypnotic trick done to manipulate minds subconsciously, one she knew how to use herself. "Well, we are no enemies of course, and all I want is to help Cat's daughters in any way I can."

She did not like how he used her mother's name in such a familiar way, nor him trying to make it a fact they were not enemies through words alone. More manipulative tactics strewn about in his speech. "If you say so."

"Yes, of course. I have done all that I can for Sansa, and will do the same for you. Once she learns that you're alive, I have no doubt she will follow my advice to send the Winged Brotherhood of the Vale and her bannermen to your aid at the Twins."

"And you could not say so, yesterday, at the council?"

"No, princess. For one, I fear a trap. By not sending her army under the dragon banners, she is giving Lord Walder Frey leave to slaughter you. The dragons and her most loyal council members – Varys and Tyrion – would rather see you perish. She wished to have your husband beheaded, after all, did she not? Don't trust her, or Varys or Tyrion. And Richard Lonmouth has turned his back on his ideals a long time ago. But you can trust me, as your sister always could. It was I who saved her from Joffrey's and Tyrion's clutches, and who made sure Joffrey was killed for beheading your father, and arranging the Red Wedding at the Twins, all the while knowing that Cersei would seal her doom by accusing her brother over it."

Arya had crossed her arms in front of her and appraised Lord Baelish' mouth and eyes as he spoke. "People who claim to have murdered Joffrey seem to be dropping like flies these days, Lord Baelish."

"Oh, are there more?"

"The Kingslayer told me that Tyrion confessed the murder to him the night he escaped and murdered their father. And yesterday Lord Tyrell hinted his grandmother was involved as well."

"The latter would be correct. She administered the poison that I had smuggled into the wedding feast."

Arya nodded. "You still have not told me why you needed to tell me this in private in your establishment, Lord Baelish," pointing out how deftly Littlefinger had sidestepped her earlier question.

"On account of Varys' little birds, princess. The walls seem to have eyes and ears in the Red Keep. I am only trying to ensure your safety."

Arya rose, without ever having touched her glass of water. "I am very grateful of your help and support, Lord Baelish. Yes, the Vale finally involving itself, after it did nothing for five years, would be very welcome. And I cannot wait until I see my sister again."

"You are leaving so soon?"

"I must, Lord Baelish. It would not do for a wedded princess to have been seen to remain too long in one of Lord Baelish' finest brothels of the city." She curtsied. "And I have other appointments and business to attend to."

Lord Baelish rose himself, bowed, took her hand and kissed it. "Then we will meet again in the Riverlands, Arya, for I am to return to the Vale on the morrow. We will remain in contact, and I hope to send word of your sister's consent soon."

She smiled and briskly left his office, but not without noticing Aegon through a door standing ajar, naked and in ecstasy as a whore sucked his cock, while he muttered she would soon have a swallow of his dragon seed. She understood why Arianne Martell would not miss him in the slightest.

As soon as she was out of that vile place, she asked Asher, "What do you think of this Lord Baelish?"

"I wouldn't trust him as far as a stone throw," said he. Arya agreed.

She had not lied about having another appointment to Lord Baelish. In fact, her next one was with the Hand of the Queen in the Hand's Tower. The Tower was a different one than the one she used to live in with her father. Cersei had it burned down by pyromancers during the wedding of King Tommen and Queen Maergary after Tyrion Lannister had killed his father Tywin in it. Mace Tyrell had started the rebuilding of a larger Tower, but only lately it had been finished under the direction of Tyrion himself. When the Hand's sellsword guards let her in, she found herself in a pleasant light room, except for some disturbing tapestries with dwarves devouring a naked voluptuous woman. What was it today with these men surrounding themselves with whores or imagery inspired to shock their guests. Even if she had to thank Tyrion for helping her solve Lem and Tom's song riddle and standing in as her father during the scaffold wedding, the graphic imagery instantly reminded her of the dualistic, violent and lecherous nature of the Imp. And yet, his marriage with her sister Sansa had been annulled on account of non-consummation. Either her sister had learned to sleep with a dagger on her person or Tyrion was not as vile as people said he was or he tried make himself out to be.

Tyrion was pouring over a book together with Varys. _Gods be good, the two of them together._ She remembered the first time she had been officially introduced to the bald, perfumed man and he had given her a hand – soft, moist, limp. He lamented the coarseness of her hands, saying it was such a pity for a highborn having had to survive on a poor man's wage.

"Ah, Princess Arya, please sit and join us at our table," the dwarf said, without looking up from his book. "How are you enjoying married life?"

"Quite well, thank you," she said neutrally.

"Young love can be such a joy," said Varys with his hands on his knees and shaking his head and fluttering his lashes. His tone of voice was such sweet honey that it made her blood curdle. On the table rested a bowl of fruits of winter fruit - dried grapes, nuts, apples and pears. Varys took an apple and offered her to choose a fruit herself. Arya picked a pear.

Tyrion finally looked up from his thick volume and slapped it closed. And though Arya put her head in her neck to read its title, Tyrion shoved it aside out of view and watched her with his gleaming mismatched eyes. The dwarf drummed his fingers on the table. "I hope you are contented with the concession made by the Queen and the small council to give you an army of ten thousand to ride for the Twins and the North?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And no doubt Lord Baelish promised you to include his bannermen and those of the Vale as well."

"Yes." Either it had been an educated guess or Lord Baelish' brothel had walls with eyes and ears as well. This would turn out to be a very interesting day, for sure. Did they intend to warn her against Baelish, as Lord Baelish had cautioned her about them?

"Don't trust him, Princess Arya," said Tyrion without dallying. Varys nodded his head vigorously in agreement, with big wide eyes as if she was a child.

Arya did not trust _any_ of them. "I thank you for your warning, Lord Tyrion. But what reason have you to believe he would betray us or me? He saved my sister." _… from you._

Tyrion's black and green eye twinkled angrily at that. And she bit her tongue as punishment for her cockiness. It would not do to anger the men closest to the dragon queen. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What do you know of the events that led to the war between our two families, Princess Stark?"

"Very little," she had to confess, while Tyrion and Varys shared a meaningful glance with each other. "I know the Kingslayer shoved my brother Bran from the tower he was climbing, causing him to fall and that my father discovered the parentage of Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella."

"Indeed. Do you also know that an assassin was sent to kill your brother with a Valyrian dagger while he was still in his sleep after the fall?"

 _A Faceless Assassin? Why would someone of the guild be sent to kill a crippled child?_ "No, my father never told me about such a thing." And yet, she remembered her father's words to her the night he discovered here Needle. _"I do not mean to frighten you, but neither will I lie to you. We have come to a dark, dangerous place, child. This is not Winterfell. We have enemies who mean us ill._ Had he been alluding to a second attempt on Bran's life?

"Some catspaw only managed to graze your mother and was killed by your brother's direwolf before he could do any harm," Tyrion said.

"And you have evidence that Lord Baelish did that?"

Tyrion shook his head. "No, Lord Baelish did not send the assassin. That was my monstrous nephew Joffrey - to put a _dog out of its misery -_ not even knowing of my brother's involvement. Joffrey had the strangest notions, ruthless and dumb as well."

Arya lifted her eyebrows. "You tell me not to trust Lord Baelish, but you've implicated your brother and your nephew in as assassination attempt I never heard of before."

Tyrion grabbed the pitcher, poured his cup full and downed it completely, afterwards wiping his mouth with the back of his little hand. "It's not the actual culprits behind it that implicate Littlefinger, but his lies about it."

Varys cocked his head, and said soothingly, "Your mother came down to King's Landing to inform your father and discover who was behind it."

"My mother was here?"

"Yes, for a short while, staying in one of Littlefinger's brothels."

Arya laughed. "You want me to believe that my mother stayed in a brothel instead of the Hand's Tower with my father?" And yet, perhaps her mother had indeed lodged in such a house for a short while. After all Lord Baelish had managed to make her visit him there. _But I'm not my mother. I've seen every brothel in Braavos. I was even a young courtesan who died too soon._

"Believe what you wish, princess, but I met your mother there, with the dagger," said Varys, his voice sharp as the edge of a Valyrian sword. "And Lord Baelish told her and myself it had been his until the tourney of Joffrey's nameday. He claimed he had backed Ser Jaime on the jousting, but that Lord Tyrion here had bet against Jaime. Supposedly, Lord Baelish had lost his dagger to Tyrion, or so he claimed."

Tyrion picked up a dagger and started to clean his nails with it, making her wonder whether it was the dagger in question. "I admit that I hate my brother and would love nothing more than to see him dead - I am immensely grateful to you for giving him up. But at the time, my brother was my best friend and the sole kin I had that loved me. I would never have bet against him. King Robert did though and was the one who had won this particular dagger from Lord Baelish, not myself."

"Are you trying to tell me, that King Robert sent an assassin on my brother?"

"You're not listening, princess," said Tyrion. "I told you that I suspect Joffrey was behind the attempt, and he got the dagger from the King's armory, after King Robert had won it from Peter Baelish. The question is not really who organized the assassination, but why would Lord Baelish lie about who won the dagger to your mother and, through her, to your father?"

Arya inhaled deeply. "That is indeed a valuable question, or you could just be making this all up."

Tyrion ignored her last comment. "Imagine my surprise, princess, when on my way back from the Wall - where I had spend time with your brother Jon - and Winterfell – where I designed a saddle for Bran so he could ride a horse, despite him being a cripple - your lady mother had me arrested in the Crossroad Inn and dragged me to your aunt Lady Arryn in the Eyrie for a trial, accusing me of the assassination attempt. Your lady mother was bold, I'll give her that, determent and smart enough to make people believe she intended to take me North. But she trusted her childhood friend Lord Baelish over common sense."

 _So, my mother did not believe Tyrion's tale._ "You seem still put out with the fact that my mother accused you of this, and yet she is dead, and here you are, still alive."

His voice was a growl, when he said, "And here _we_ are. Your aunt too accused me of murdering her husband Jon Arryn, the Hand before your father. It was his death that prompted King Robert to come to Winterfell and ask your father to become his Hand."

"What has this to do with Lord Baelish?"

"Because your aunt married Lord Baelish and then she fell out of the moondoor, while he claims to have taken the maidenhood of both Tully sisters, including your mother, when he was a boy."

 _That's a lie!_ She'd never believe that of her mother. And yet, Lord Baelish had called her mother Cat.

"Sweetrobin died not long after her – from an illness – and Sansa's husband Harry the Heir was killed in some mysterious and very unfortunate riding accident, once she was pregnant." Tyrion leaned over the table, closing the distance between her and him, so that she had a good look at his scarred nose. "Your mother's rather rash arrest of my person led to my father sending the Mountain to the Riverlands on a punitive mission to burn and pillage poor folk, to Jaime fighting your father in the streets of King's Landing, and for your father sending Ser Beric Dondarrion to arrest the Mountain."

Varys pushed one of the cups with his fingers in her direction as well as the pitcher of wine. She decided she ought to take Varys' hint for the wine, poured herself a cup and took a sip, especially at the mentioning of Ser Beric. It was a sour Dornish red. Ser Beric had told her back in the days of the Brotherhood why he was in the Riverlands and how it had been a trap, meant to kill him… _or my father_. "I thought it had been my father's backing of King Stannis that started the war."

"Eventually it would have, but the makings of war already had started, because of Littlefinger's lie about the dagger. I also doubt that Lord Baelish would like it if you knew that he held the knife to your father's throat when he was arrested on the steps before the Iron Throne, though Lord Stark had been appointed to be regent of Robert's rightful heir in the will read aloud before all the court. It was Littlefinger who double crossed your father - made him believe he had the backing of the Gold Cloaks while they did not."

 _My father_ … But she could not betray her shock and grief over this before these two men, instead she expressed anger, "If you already knew this for so long, why did you keep him on the Lannister council and now again with the dragon queen?"

Tyrion sighed, and sat down again, while ogling his empty cup. "Because the Realm's gold chests were empty and he can spin gold, better than my father could, although at least this time Varys and I managed to convince Queen Daenerys to take the wardenship away from him and to give it to your sister instead as well as make the Freys the ruling house over Harrenhall. Littlefinger is a very ambitious man. I would not put it past him to have cooked up some plan already to get his hands on one of the dragons."

Varys nodded in agreement to Tyrion's words."It is just so. Lord Baelish works and plots for only one – himself."

She narrowed her eyes at them, thinking, _but you are not?_ And yet, Arya was also reminded of Arianne's little hint about Aegon, as well as the glimpse of him in Lord Baelish' brothel earlier that day. She had supposed Aegon was only there for the women. But what if Littlefinger attempted to convince Aegon in getting a dragon and start a war again against Queen Daenerys which would even the levels more than they ever had before? More and more, she started to get a vision of a man who had sown suspicions around to create chaos for his personal benefit.

Varys said, "We do not ask of you to trust us or our interests, but we do have some higher goals beyond ourselves. These are not the sole lies you need to be aware about."

"There is more?"

"Yes," said Tyrion. "Varys and I both combed all of the countryside to find you, after you disappeared, without result – and believe you me, if Varys could not find you, nobody could. The last person to have seen you was Ser Meryn in the tower. Immediately after that, your trail was cold. And then a year later, my father told me he had sent you to the North to be married to Ramsay Bolton, claiming that Lord Baelish had done what none of us could do, having sheltered you in one of his _establishments_. Of course, we are now certain that she was not you, but an imposter. Do you truly believe that Littlefinger could have mistaken your identity, especially while he hid your sister in the Vale?"

"He said something to me during the feast about me being at the Wall and I knew it to be insincere," Arya said in a way not to betray she already knew about this from another source, Gendry.

"We fear for your safety, princess," said Varys. "Lord Baelish offered to marry Sansa and take her off Joffrey's hand, long before he even gained himself a lordship, but that was written off the table as soon as he mentioned it. And then on the day of Joffrey's murder, she vanishes, and a year later turns out to have been hiding in the Vale, disguised as his natural daughter Elayne. He wants the North and the Riverlands and the Vale. He wants what once belonged to the Tullys and the Starks and the Arryns, and he wants it through Sansa who takes so much after your mother, the woman he challenged Brandon Stark for. He's had two setbacks before you set foot on the shores of Westeros again – Lord Baelish did not count on dragons returning to Westeros, let alone one who promoted Sansa while stripping him of his wardenship, and Rickon Stark being found and retrieved. And now you have made yourself known, in King's Landing."

"The North will only rally to Sansa, if Rickon and you are dead," said Tyrion. Arya saw them watching her in a way as If they were saying, _are we getting through to you now?_ "Have you never wondered, why Sansa has not once made an effort to support Rickon with her bannermen of the Vale? Why she had not even tried to take power in the Riverlands over Walder Frey – the man who slaughtered Robb, your mother and his bannermen?"

Arya lifted her hand to her mouth. "I did find it odd, and yet not. My sister was never one with the mind of war."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Oh, do not be mistaken in your sister, princess. She has great strength of endurance, and a great hatred for Boltons, Freys and Lannisters alike. I may not have bedded her, but we lived as wife and husband for a while, and she felt it keenly – while trying to hide it – what they did to your mother and brother. But she is Peter's creature now. He's her most relied adviser and she does nothing he does not whisper in her ear. It is not in Littlefinger's interest to help Rickon, nor you. Littlefinger only looks after Littlefinger."

Varys grabbed for her hand. "I urge you to send a message to your sister about your reappearance with some information for her so she knows it to be you, before Littlefinger is back at her side. We fear he may try to convince your sister that you are an imposter, set up a trap and do away with you."

Arya sighed, looked at the cup of wine and quietly set it back on the table. Arya frowned. He relationship with her sister had always been problematic. Could she truly hope for a joyful reunion with Sansa, especially if Sansa was a creature of Lord Baelish' making? She felt drained by all this talk, by all these revelations of events she hardly ever knew anything about.

Finally, she said, "Lord Tyrion, you mentioned your brother the Kingslayer was your best friend and the sole one of your family that you loved. And yet you hate him immensely now. May I inquire what made you change your mind? Was it the murder of your sister?"

"Ugh, by the gods, no. I should thank him for that. She was mad as a bat and hated me all her life," Tyrion said flippant. But then his face grew dark and mean. "No, it is a deep, personal matter of my youth, when I was still a boy, and also the reason why I shot an arrow in my father while he was shitting gold on the privy."

If two brothers who used to love each other could wish each other dead years later for an offense made in their youth like this, what hope did she have with Sansa who hated her for Lady?

"You promised me to grant me a favor for answering your riddle," Tyrion said, interrupting her thoughts. "I do not expect you to know the answer to this, but I might ask just as well. A riddle for a riddle, so to speak."

"I'm not so good with riddles, I must confess," said Arya flatly and feeling exhausted.

The dwarf shrugged his shoulders. "Do you know, by any chance, where whores do go?"

"To Braavos," she said automatically.

Tyrion's jaw dropped and he was in danger of spilling wine, until he realized he was still pouring. "Why do you say that?"

"It's a Bravosi saying, Lord Tyrion. _'Where do whores go? To Braavos.'_ It means something akin to ' _Don't ask silly questions you already know the answer to_ '. Braavos is a sailor's city and sailors are always looking for relief after being weeks or months at sea. Why?"

Tyrion chuckled at his wine cup, his mismatched eyes glinting. "To Braavos, she says, without a second thought." Tyrion was smiling as he lifted his cup to her. "I must thank you, princess Arya. You have just done me a very great favor."

"I did?"

"Yes, princess, very much so."

She had no idea why a Bravosi saying would make Tyrion so happy, but if he considered it the repaying of a favor, it was fine by Arya. As she returned to the Maidenvault apartments, where she and her small company were stationed, Arya was sure she would soon develop a headache over who was the least and the most reliable. Tyrion and Varys had spun a thorough tale though, and it seemed that she ought to consider in not trusting Lord Baelish at all. Despite the revulsion she felt for Varys' spying tactics and Tyrion's dualistic nature, they had seemed the most truthful and the least manipulative in their behaviour towards her that day. And if their accusations and claims were true, then she finally had a new name on her list – all those whose death she prayed for so long before were already dead, some by her own hand, most by others. But this time, she would not pray to kill him herself. She had to find a way to free her sister from his mind games and let Sansa do it.

Arya, entered her assigned apartments. Despite the barred windows that she had cursed on the day of Gendry's trial, she admitted she preferred them over those of the rest of the keep - except for the poor souls trapped in the wall and ceilings, but they were everywhere in the keep. Because of Baelor's tastes and intentions for keeping his sisters there, the rooms were large and yet without too much lavish details, and so more Spartan like in adornments of the walls and furniture. But she found Rowland Fenn and Lord Dayne waiting for her.

"You look pale, Princess Arya," said Edric with a kind smile. "Perhaps a bit of fresh air and a walk in the godswood will do you some good."

Arya looked at Edric and at Rowland and realized they wanted to speak with her with the least chance of little birds overhearing them. "Yes, perhaps you're right. It might do me some good to go someplace that is the closest resemblance to a connection to the old gods. I sat in vigil once with my father at the great oak tree, after we received the news that my brother Bran had woken up."

 _Bran_ , she thought. All of their misery had started with Bran's fall – no push – before he was murdered by Theon the Turncloak. And yet, Morgan Liddle had told her that a clansman of his had met Bran in a cave, along with his direwolf and two Crannogmen children, and a giant who could only say "Hodor". _Are you alive still, Bran? Where are you?_

She walked with Rowland and Edric through the snow of the godswood. There was no heart tree at King's Landing, or anywhere south, but a great oak tree stood symbol for it, and she instinctively sought it. In the winter landscape, the Red Keep's godswood reminded her much more of home, than it had all those years ago.

"Is it true that you have agreed with the dragon queen that you will persuade Lord Edmure to bend the knee for her as well as Rickon?" asked Edric.

"Yes, she is sending an army of ten thousand with us, but threatened to personally lay Winterfell to ashes with Drogon, if I double cross her."

"There is something you must know, but have not yet been informed about," said Edric in a hushed whisper, while looking at Rowland.

Rowland lifted his cloak and took out a paper roll with the direwolf seal and five others – Tully, Glover, Mormont, Umber and Malister.

"What is this?" she asked with eyes wide open.

"Read it, Princess Arya. It is probably Westeros' best kept secret," said Rowland. "And it is best not to speak of it."

Arya broke the seals, one by one, and rolled out the parchment. She instantly recognized Robb's handwriting. It was his last will. She perused her eyes quickly through its contest, and her jaw went slack. "How did you get by this?" she hissed.

"It was retrieved by the Brotherhood without Banners at its hiding place in Hag's Mire and delivered to Lord Galbart Glover who had been instructed to find Greywater Watch in the Neck before the Red Wedding occurred. He was a witness to the writing of it – as were Lady Maege Mormont, Greatjon Umber, and Lord Edmure Tully who informed Brynden the Blackfish before letting him escape," said Rowland. "It has been safeguarded at Greywater Watch, which can only be found when it wants to be found, until the Neck started to freeze shut. Howland Reed gave it to me to hand it to Rickon, but when we learned of Rickon's situation it seemed unwise at the time."

Arya read the document again, with more attention now. _"End of the year 299 AC,_

_I, Robb Stark, King in the North, hereby declare my last will in case I die. My sister Lady Sansa Stark is permanently removed from my line of succession. I appoint Lady Catelyn Tully as regent over a trueborn heir who is not yet of age. If there is no trueborn heir after me, other than Lady Sansa Stark, or they are not in any way capable to rule, then I legitimize Jon Snow and name him Jon Stark, so that he will be King in the North, heir to Winterfell and all it entails, as well as relieved from his vows to the Night's Watch in exchange for as many men the Wall requires. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.  
_

_King in the North, Robb Stark."_

Arya swallowed. _Robb barred Sansa from ever inheriting Winterfell._ _That makes four setbacks for Lord Baelish. Even if something were to happen to Rickon or myself, the North will rally to Jon, but never Sansa. There were too many witnesses to this._ "Did Robb believe any of us to be alive at the time?"

Rowland shook his head. "Galbart said Robb had just received news on the death of Bran and Rickon and believed you to be dead as well, even though there was no positive confirmation of it."

Arya frowned. "It changes nothing, really. Rickon is still King in the North."

"Not if he is deemed incapable to rule," said Edric.

"But Bran may live too, according to Morgan Liddle."

"Bran went beyond the wall," said Rowland. "He's either dead or incapable to return. For a while Lord Reed knew of his whereabouts through his son Jojen who was with him. But that connection has been severed."

She stared at Edric and Rowland who were looking at her intently. Arya realized they wished her to understand that the removal of her sister from Robb's line of succession might possibly have made her…

"Keen!" squawked an old, ruffled Raven that landed on the oak tree from the Red Keep's rookery.

... _Queen_ , she finished her thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in Robb's Will: I've based the details on who has it and where it was hidden on this theory  
> http://asoiaf.westerosindex.php/topic/71689-can-someone-explain-robbs-will/?p=3937581
> 
> While of course its content is not actually known, we do know some of Robb's thoughts on who he wants to make heir (to Cat's chagrin): scrap Sansa, legitimize Jon. Since Robb considers Bran, Rickon and Arya to be dead, he would not have barred them from inheriting. Had Robb believed Arya to be alive he probably would have barred her from inheritance, as he did with Sansa, because the risk of an enemy house trying to get their hands on WF through marriage would have been too great. But it would have made no sense to bar kin he believed to be dead already. Some believe Robb legitimized Jon without further conditions, which is quite possible, as he believed all his trueborn siblings but Sansa to be dead. If he did so, then Bran and Rickon come after Jon, because he's older than them. But Robb may have been in doubt whether Jon might not claim to be older than Robb and thereby push Robb's hypothetical children aside. That's why I suspect Robb's will included a condition, a clause, which effectively makes Arya 3rd in line, and Jon 4th. Personally I believe there's a possibility that GRRM has been toying with the idea - there's the naming of the wolf Nymeria who is an alpha female of her own pack (without an alpha male), Nymeria was the Rhoynar's warrior queen, Arya asking whether she could not lord a castle, Sansa's taunts of her being queen one day and Arya will have to bow to her, and there's her father's reference about marrying a king and raising queens.


	27. The Silent Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you expect a Gendry chapter, but this is another Arya POV chapter, to settle some matters in the Red Keep, before I can move the rest of the story along, including Jaime's trial. I'm also very much aware that the past two chapters contained a lot of info that we already know about as readers from the previous books. In Gendry's case, it was for characterization in front of children. If his story to the children sound somewhat different than the way it happened in the books - Gendry was only talking about the part on the King's Road with Joren right up to the point before he gets caught in the village. He was also censuring and telling a synthesis of it, and he represented Arya as a boy initially, because that was how he originally got to know her - Arry the boy. In Arya's case, it was necessary for her to learn about Lord Baelish, so she can play her own strategy of cyvasse to undo him via Sansa. I could have simply mentioned it without too much dialogue, but I felt her inner dialogue was waymore subtle about it in this way.

Arya looked about her in Qyburn's office, watching all potions and ingredients he had at ready hand stacked on shelves and more shelves along with book after book. The room was a mess of pots, bottles, books, paper, and it smelled stuffy. Qyburn shuffled about, in a white robe rather than the usual grey one, and was smiling at her friendly.

"What can Qyburn do for a princess?" he said in the gentlest tone.

The turn of his phrase made her look at him closer. She remembered the man from Harrenhall, and though he had the Grand Maester title at King's Landing, she knew he had been expelled from the maester's Citadel for his practices. It was odd to think of such a friendly smiling face also doing what was whispered he did. But Arya knew all too well how looks could be used as a deception. But a deeper deception suddenly sprung her mind. _What if… but no, that could not be._ She waved the notion off. Odd men using odd phrases was not just the guild's monopoly.

"I need to send out two messages by raven. One for the Wall and one for the Vale."

"Has Arya Stark permission from the Queen for this?"

"Yes, she has read the messages I want to send." And as proof to that, she showed both letters were sealed with the dragon stamp as well as that of the direwolf.

Right after she learned of the will the day before, Arya cursed the damn thing at first. It only could antagonize Sansa if she ever learned, and Jon never needed Robb's legitimization – he was a trueborn Targaryan, either first or second line, depending on whether Aegon was a Blackfyre or Jon's actual older brother. But now she had the document of hell in her possession, and she could not burn it with that many witnesses knowing of it, nor let anyone else know about it – not even a whisper with Varys' little birds being everywhere. She resealed it, with Lord Dayne and Rowland Fenn as witnesses at the oak tree and gave it back to Rowland for safe keeping, after writing an added declaration in her own hand that she had read and accepted the will's content as valid.

Once, in her room, she had paced to and fro, thinking about Lord Baelish trying to manipulate her and Tyrion and Varys' assertions about him. They were right at least about one thing. Arya needed to write her sister. But by trying to do so, she realized how apprehensive she was about her sister. What would she think of Arya disappearing and reappearing without ever contacting her before? What if Sansa learned that she had been a courtesan and trained as an assassin? Sansa would be less than impressed with her unladylike, near open affair with a man of the Night's Watch for love and scaffold's marriage – even if she did not regret any of it. Would Sansa turn away from her, shun her, like she once feared her brother Robb or her mother might put her out for what she was becoming? Seven hells, what if Sansa did not even believe it was her, but thought her an imposter?

Arya needed to write and put in hints that would confirm Arya was who she was as well as give Sansa clues to expose Lord Baelish' treachery, while being limited to a little scrap of paper that could be sent with a raven. It needed to be cleverly done. Tyrion's and Varys' assertions about him were useless. Lord Baelish would just deny them if Sansa confronted him. Arya remembered how she had tried to tell her sister what a monster Joffrey was. He was about to kill Arya right in front of Sansa's eyes, and all she could do was scream, "Stop ruining my happy day!" and blame Arya for it all. Arya dared not count on Sansa's denial reflexes being no more. No, the clever thing would be for Lord Baelish to arrive at the Vale, telling his lies to Sansa, and Arya's letter contradicting his words by the very existence of Arya's letter.

Arya finally set out to start writing, in her usual left handed spidery handwriting. _Ugh,_ she thought, _Sansa will probably only berate me how awful my writing still is in her reply._ She started anew on a new scrap, with the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration in her effort to beautify her style. And then she looked at her original paper. _She might curse my unladylike writing, but at least she'll know it's me who's written it._ And so, she decided to write as spidery as ever before.

" _End of year 304,_

_Dear sister,_

_I'm alive and well in King's Landing. I ride North for Rickon and peace in the Riverlands with ten thousand Stark banners. The girl at the Wall is Jeyne Poole. Perhaps people confused us because she was your companion while I had dancing lessons. Relieved of your escape, and sorry your happy marriage was short-lived. Congratulations on your son Robb Hardyn. I wish for the day we can embrace. I know my curtsies and sometimes wear dresses. Sowing is for my handmaidens – my stitches are still crooked. The song about a scaffold wedding is the truth. Ser Gendry Baratheon fought in the Riverlands against Lions and Freys. We love each other dearly, although Hodor might have been a good match for me as well. Gendry and I escaped the capital together for the Wall, but the Hound separated us. Sandor died from a wound that he refused to cauterize, for fear of fire, near Saltpans where I boarded for Braavos in 300. Sandor's last thoughts were with a song he took from you._

_Sisterly love,_

_Princess of the North, Arya "Horseface" Stark"_

Arya was rather pleased with the result. There was nothing in it that could alarm her enemies if the letter happened to be read by the wrong eyes, or at least not something they would not have learned already through other means. And yet it had enough details for Sansa to know the letter had indeed been written by her own hand, and was flippant enough to make Sansa's eyes roll. She mentioned Hodor, because Sansa had once shouted she ought to marry him in their father's office, when he told them to ship them off back to Winterfell. She was convinced it would not be without effect. She had no idea why she had felt compelled to write about the Hound, but somehow Arya knew it would be the deciding factor.

The second letter for the Wall was much shorter and less personal, for she was unsure whether Jon or another was in command.

" _For the Lord Commander,_

_Ser Gendry Baratheon found me and took me back to Westeros. Am in King's Landing, making ready to go North and bring ten thousand men. Gendry was tried as an outlaw and could only be saved by my offer of marriage, since a headless brother of the Night's Watch cannot serve and protect the Realm. I have one request: Jeyne Poole was Sansa's best friend and Sansa would be grateful to shelter her._

_Princess of the North, Arya Stark."_

"I also have a list of things I need to make a fertility potion with," she lied to Qyburn.

Qyburn took her note full of scribbles and quirked his eyebrows up as he read it. "A princess needs all that for a fertility potion?" Arya was ready to explain, she only needed small amounts, and that it was a special potion she had learned of in Braavos, when Qyburn said, "Seems to a man that a woman rather wants to rid herself of a great many people."

 _It's not Qyburn! And he's letting me know it too._ "Who are you?" she hissed.

"A man has had need of many names, as has a woman – Arry, Weasel, Arya Stark, No One."

"Jaqen," she stumbled back. The Lothari soldier who had offered her to kill three names at Harrenhall and she forced to help her free the Glover and Karstark prisoners with the weasel soup was a member of the small council? _The guild has a man on the small council. Why? What for?_ This could not possibly be for just some contract, let alone to assess her progress. _Is it related to the dragon queen, Aegon or the actual dragons?_ But she knew better than to inquire. An initiate would never inform an acolyte why or what he was sent to do. She even doubted they would tell each other even.

The man who was now Qyburn inclined his head. "A man has said." He lifted her list. "What is a woman's plan with this? A woman only needs to give one life to the Stranger for the life she took from him, not a hundred."

Arya opened her mouth, but closed it again to think how to word her answer carefully. Jaqen had mentioned the No One identity, so he knew she was trained at the House of Black and White. And if he was aware of this, he probably also understood she had been given a name to complete her initiation. _Seven hells, he has control over the rookery, so I can't have him report back that I intend to kill people willy nilly that do not fall under the guild's gift policy._ "Caged little birds," she said, "praying to many gods who are but the one."

"They will be only replaced by new caged birds."

Her heart sank. She knew that. She could not save those poor abused sods. Only killing Varys would stop it, but that would be beyond her reach and too suspicious. And for now she needed Varys. The trapped souls in the walls and ceilings haunted her, every day more. Everyone seemed to know they were being watched somehow, and yet ate, shit, fucked and laughed as if nobody was watching. But Arya could barely breath in the keep, after having felt those children being there. Her moon time during the first week of their marriage and Gendry's long days and sometimes long nights at Tobho's shop had limited her contact with him the past fortnight, and she was glad for it. While she had no issue with Gendry making love to her in a bedroll under night's sky amongst hundred in a desert, or with Nymeria watching her in Kingswood, she had come to loathe it at the Red Keep.

"The answered prayer of a slave did not stop slavery either," she argued. "A prayer is a prayer, and it will be hard for a certain man to gather his reports for some time."

Qyburn nodded. "Just so. A man will take care of the making of this. A woman will take care of the gifting of this." Then he gestured her to follow him into the rookery.

Arya had never seen that many ravens in one tower, not even at Winterfell, although it seemed reasonable that King's Landing needed as many ravens almost as there were castles in all of Westeros. Qyburn opened two cages and instructed her how to attach her letters on them. From the window she saw an old black tomcat with one eye on the roof close by, busy grooming his ears and head with its paw. The cat seemed familiar somehow. He reminded her of the one she chased once, until she found her way to the catacombs and the dragon skulls and the conversation between two men discussing war and the murder of her father. She had no idea back then, who they were, but she could place names on them now without afterthought. The first had been the merchant Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos who loved to fondle Lovely Lilly's ass, while the other had been Varys in disguise. _They had been discussing an order of little birds as well_ , she realized _._ She frowned in thought – it had been the Pentos merchant who wanted war to be hastened and offered the idea to kill the Hand, but Varys who wanted more time and seemed reluctant to murder her father. _Time for what?_

"Something went queer," Joren had told her, after he pointed out that he had been at Baelor's Sept during her father's confession of treason to take her father back to the Wall as a brother. He was going to take the Black, and then Joffrey happened. Gendry had told her Varys had visited Jaime and him in the black cells and claimed he was the one who warned Tobho Mott to send him to the Wall five years ago. Had Varys wanted to stall the war between her brother and Joffrey by saving her father, or had he followed Illyrio's advice? Something was eluding her and it gave her headaches unraveling it. _Does it matter,_ asked her No One. _Of course it does!_ But she knew what No One meant. It mattered, but it was not a pressing priority. She had to take out some of Varys' spies in order to have certain meetings, including the queen.

"A princess is in luck," said Qyburn. "A cat likes to eat a raven."

Her attention was drawn to the ravens flying off unharmed, while the old tomcat turned and jumped off the roof to a window ledge. She remembered suddenly how a guard had called that cat the True King of King's Landing for he even stole food from the table right in front of King Robert's nose.  _Balerion is his name._ The raven that looked much like the one the day before hopped onto Qyburn's shoulder as Qyburn held out corn for him to eat. He was allowed to fly freely in the rookery. "Why is this one not in a cage?" she asked.

"A raven is an old raven, flying nowhere. This is his home."

" _Home! "_ croaked the raven, _"Home! Home!"_

Arya giggled and stretched her hand to his beak as if he was a pet. "He speaks. You're a smart bird, aren't you?"

 _"_ _Smart! Home!"_ He was looking at her, cocking his head, as he shouted at her. It was almost as if he was trying to tell her something. She had a sudden urge to enter his mind to find out, but when she tried there was an impossible barrier. _"Mine!"_ And then to Qyburn it croaked, " _Corn! Corn, corn, corn!_ "

"A man finds a raven speaks a miss mash of words all the time. But corn most of all."

She shook her head, baffled. The bird had prevented her from going into his mind. Of course, it was the first time she had ever tried to get into a bird's mind. But could a bird truly have a stronger mind that a direwolf, or a cat or even a person?

Before she could test the raven's mind or that of another raven, Qyburn pushed her out of the rookery. "A lovely princess has other things to do, so a man can make what she wants." He closed the door of the rookery and she could still hear the raven squawk about corn, as he pushed her down the steep wooden chairs that landed them in his office, past the entrance. "A man will be ready by the morning." And with that he banged the door closed and left her in the corridor to marvel about him even being there as well as that strange raven.

She wound her way down the maester's tower in her sturdy green wool dress and her winter coat flapping behind her. She pondered how the Red Keep filled her days with intrigue. It was a maze of dualistic personalities where nobody truly seemed to be who they were and their interests were as murky as the Mud Gate. She automatically wandered outside of the keep to the godswood, thinking about Varys, his values, his secret goals, his little birds and the dreadful feeling she had that Aegon was up to something. A man like that could not be set aside and propped up for appearances alone, least of all by women. He had the hunger for power that she had seen in others in Harrenhall and in Braavos. He would try something very stupid soon.

"Princess Arya, will you walk with me?"

Arya looked across her shoulder at Queen Danaerys and Missandei by her side. It confirmed Arya's impression that the queen only truly trusted Missandei. "Of course, Your Grace."

The silver haired queen with big, violet eyes held her elbow to the side, for Arya to encircle it. They walked a short while in silence, before the queen said, "I know that when first you came to court I sounded harsh and vengeful, but the rule of a kingdom in part relies on harsh and severe choices, as well as being merciful. And my choice of allies in the Ironborn served me well to conquer the realm, but not bring peace. If Mereen taught me one thing, then it is the fact that a ruler cannot please everyone and sometimes peace is impossible." She hesitated before she asked, "Do you have dreams, Princess Arya?"

"Dreams, Your Grace?"

"I have dragon dreams – dreams in which I burn the world and drown armies of ice in blood with my dragons. And sometimes I wish I could do all that for the wrong done to my family, or done to people who never had the luxury to be truly free. There is so much evil in the world that a part of me wants to destroy all, to end evil and misery." Daenerys voice sounded like crackling fire. The queen shook her head. "Other times I want to flee, on Drogon, and never come back. I took the Iron Throne, because I felt it was my right and believed I'm the kingdom's savior. But now I'm stuck, like in Mereen, to ruling it. And when I feel like that I fear that all I am ever meant to do is destroy the world. And yet, I want to do good for the realm."

Arya stared at the queen, baffled about all the queen's words she had spilled without much thought. "Well, I…" _Bloody seven hells, this queen has dragon dreams? Nightmares more like. Will this one go as mad as her father?_

Daenerys was looked at her with curiosity, her face not unfriendly, her full lips curled slightly into that of a smile. "I've been told by servants that you have nightmares?"

Arya stiffened. _Little bird serving Varys no doubt._ "Nightmares of the many horrors I saw. M-my father being beheaded at Baelor's Sept."

"You were there?"

"Yes, and outside of the Twins as they murdered my brother and mother and his men and his direwolf too."

Daenerys looked startled by this. "I'm sorry, Princess Arya. I should not have asked this." She looked as if into some distant past. "I still feel hate for the men responsible of slaying my father, my brother Rhaegar and his two children, including your father – though I know well enough that my father was a mad and cruel man and the usurpers had their reasons. But I was a baby, born after the war was finished and I never knew them. You are a strong woman, if you somehow managed to cope the witnessing of the slaughter of your family."

Arya looked at her feet. "I'm not sure whether I ever coped with it."

Daenerys stopped walking, cocked her head and appraised her. "I think you have coped very well. When you confronted me that day in the big hall, I realized you were not unlike myself, even though you carry the name of an enemy of mine. After I survived the Red Waste and arrived at Qarth, I tried to get support for my aim to return to Westeros and claim the throne, but I was dismissed like a little child, even though I was the Mother of Dragons already. I realized when you spoke to me, that I could choose to be like those who rejected me, or I could do the opposite."

"For which I'm grateful," said Arya. "You have given me more than I ever hoped for." And then she said, "You declared you were no witness to the death of your kin. But Rakharo mentioned how your brother Vyserys died. Were you not present?"

"I was present. He was a fool, a violent fool. He would have me raped by a whole khalasar if it could get him an army, and he threatened me and my unborn child. It did not bother me, much." They continued their walk and for a long while they were silent, until the queen asked, "You used a special phrase that day – a Song of Ice and Fire. Where have you ever heard that mentioned? What does it signify to you?"

"At the Tower of Joy in Dorne, Your Grace." She watched the queen from under her eyelashes, unsure how much to tell. It was said that dragon dreams sometimes where prophetic, and the queen had mentioned dreaming of fighting an army of ice. Could she have dreamt about the Others? But she would not tell Daenerys about Jon. He would fare no better than Aegon did, if Daenerys found out that there was another nephew who had more right to the throne than she did. "Where my aunt Lyanna died as well as several Kingsguard and my father's men. It's a prophecy, Your Grace, regarding the coming of a new Long Night. I take it has to do with the Pact of Ice and Fire."

Daenerys frowned. "What is that?"

Arya was surprised that a Targaryen did not know her own family history. "The Pact of Ice and Fire was an agreement between the Starks of Winterfell and Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen during the Dance of Dragons, for their support against Aegon II. It included a marriage pact whereby a royal princess was to marry into the family of Lord Cregan Stark, although such a marriage never happened as there were too few royal survivors."

The queen blinked at her and whispered to herself, "The Pact and the Song of Ice and Fire. He was wrong." Queen Daenerys suddenly took Arya by her hand. "I had visions in the House of the Undying at Qarth. My brother Rhaegar declared his newborn son Aegon to have a song called the Song of Ice and Fire. But that could not be, since his son Aegon had no ice in him. He told me the dragon must have three heads. He ran off with the woman he truly loved, Lyanna Stark, to finally somehow follow up on this pact to make a third." She put her hand to her mouth. "But they all died – Elia, Rhaegar, Rhaenys, Aegon, Lyanna."

Arya looked away from the queen to hide her face. Daenerys had the right of it – a Stark had married into royalty, but it had been a royal crown prince with a Stark daughter. But not all had died – Jon lived. And it seemed there were three heads for the dragon – Daenerys, Aegon and Jon. Arya chewed her bottom lip.

"I had other vision in that house. Of the past as well as the future. _Slayer of lies_ , they called me, showing me King Stannis and the false dragon Aegon. _Bride of fire_ , I was named too, Drogo's bride, as well as Euron's. He urged me on the path of destruction. In many ways he was like Daario, but more poisonous and dangerous and even more exciting." Arya could still hear the lust the queen had known for Euron Greyjoy. This queen does like her men dangerous and violent. "Drogo came to love me, and a witch betrayed me with her blood magic, and then he died. Euron did not love me. He only saw me as a good fuck and use all of my power for his own. He only saw me and my dragons as a means to become the richest man in the world. His was the treason of gold and he used the treacherous Pryat Pree." Arya had difficulty following at all that, as the queen mumbled aloud to herself almost. She had spoken true when she told Tyrion she was no good at riddles. "Almost all have come to pass, except a few. I was told I must light three fires - Drogo's fire gave life to the dragons. Rhaegal's and Drogon's fire are the bloody ones. But I have yet to light fire for love. _Three mounts I must ride_ \- Silver I rode to bed Drogo,  Drogon as well as Euron were the mounts of dread. But I have yet to mount the one to love. For years I thought this was Daario, but I find I do not love him at all. It was only lust and he bores me now. I still must slay the lie of a stone winged beast that rises from a smoking tower and breathes shadow fire. And I must be once more a bride, and I hope this might be the mount I love - to a blue rose in a wall of ice, smelling ever so sweetly. Does that mean anything to you?"

Arya could not completely hide her surprise at that. Everything else had been meaningless, but a blue rose in a wall of ice jumped out at her. It had been Lyanna's favorite flower. Her father laid one at her statue in the crypts, every year. And as Lyanna's son, Jon could be that flower, who was at the Wall. She stared at the queen almost horrified. She shuddered at the thought of this destructive queen desiring her brother Jon - _no, not my brother, my cousin_.

Daenerys stared at her. "You know what it means! You must tell me."

She smoothed out her features, and said, "The blue roses is the flower of my aunt Lyanna, Your Grace."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at her, but then turned her head and continued their stroll. "You do not want to tell me." Her face was sad. "I envy you your marriage, princess. You have a man devoted to you, who loves you clearly with all of his heart. I feel that my mind and heart will never find rest until I find such a man for myself. I am certain it must be this blue rose. I dream of his kisses, sweet as that flower."

"It is not for me to tell it, Your Grace" Arya said stubbornly interrupting the queen from telling her any more. How could Jon ever come to love this queen? She hated the idea alone. "I am not a fortuneteller and know nothing of visions." 

"Will you deny another the possibility of finding the sort happiness that you have found yourself?"

Arya felt the prickling of tears against the idea of Jon loving Queen Daenerys, but she also felt guilty. What did she expect of Jon? Was she to stand in between what was possibly fated? And so, she finally whispered, "Perhaps I know of a place that might be willing to tell you more."

"Where?"

"The Isle of Faces at the God's Eye, near Harrenhall."

Daenerys let go of Arya's arm and took a step back, her face showing her revulsion. "That's a place of the Old Gods, of sacrifice."

"The Starks follow the Old Gods, Your Grace, not the new." And if the dragon queen ever wanted to love her Jon, she needed to accept the Old Gods. "The men of the Isle may not tell you anything, or they may tell you all." Arya would leave it to them to inform the dragon queen ought to know and what not.

"Hmmm. Perhaps you are right. I could fly there on Drogon to seek their counsel, as Adam Velaryon did once." The queen's purple eyes lit up with delight and her lips curled into a smile. Then she patted Arya's hand. "But I will do that after the Kingslayer's trial."

"When will that be?"

"He demanded a trial by combat, the one handed fool," Daenerys said with a sneer. "Told me he would let the gods decide over his faith, rather than submit to my authority as a judge. I was tempted to have him fight Drogon as my champion." She looked at Arya. "But perhaps that would be too much like what my father did with your grandfather. I'm not mad, yet. Meanwhile Ser Jorah and Daario are fighting amongst themselves which of the two would honor me the most by being my champion."

Arya was tempted to bit her lip, but refrained from showing any outward sign to the queen. _I have to warn Gendry. He needs to have Ice ready before the trial. And I need to answer a lot of prayers of those little birds soon._ "Where do you keep your dragons, Your Grace? At the dragonpit?"

Daenerys chuckled. "Certainly not. It prevented the dragons from getting their true size before it was destroyed during the Dance of Dragons. They are close, but safe."

Arya frowned in thought, remembering the queen's question about dreams. _Would the dragon queen's dragon dreams be like my wolf dreams? Are dragonriders like wargs? Is that how the Targaryens control a dragon?_ Ought she warn the queen about Aegon possibly having plans to get his hands on one? "You do not fear someone trying to steal one, like Aegon?"

Daenerys laughed. "He would need to find them first and have the ability to control one, otherwise they'll just roast and eat him. He's arrogant and angry, but when I marry him, he'll be king just as well. Why should he risk death?" Daenerys shivered and a new batch of snow started to fall steadily. "I don't like winter," she said. "Let us go back inside and seek the warmth of the keep." And when they entered the hallway and separated to their respective apartments, she thanked Arya for her company.

Arya changed from her winter dress into her britches, a fitting woolen tunic and a jerkin with a fur lined hood for riding. She went for the stables, and required the stable boy to saddle Winter for her, and rode for Tobho's forge. Dusk was already upon them. It would be dark soon. And even as busy King's Landing could be with plenty of people living or making their living in the alleys and streets, it looked rather deserted, as people tried to seek shelter against the cold in the inns or their homes. Arya knew that Gendry would probably scowl at her for leaving the Red Keep at such a dark hour, all by herself without an escort or guard, but she believed her dagger and Needle was all she needed for protection. She wound her way up the Street of Steel and bound Winter to a pole at the back door of the shop. When she entered the forge that was like a furnace, silent as a shadow, she could see him hammering all by himself, in his bare chest. There was nobody else present that she could notice, and at the entrance, she leaned against the doorpost to admire the muscle play of his back.

Silently, she approached him from behind. He halted his stroke in mid-air, laid his working hammer down, and laid a cloth over his work. "Arya, you should not come here at this hour all by yourself," he said without ever turning towards her.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, as she halted right behind him and gingerly reached out with her hand to touch his back.

"I can feel it when you're around, and your silent sneaking up to me betrays it can only be you," he said cheekily.

Her fingers touched him and then she rested her palm right below his shoulder. Her other hand stroked his shoulder, and moved to the back of his neck. He shivered under her touch and he leaned his head back in response to her touch. "I missed you," she whispered, "and I did not want to wait for you in that big empty featherbed." She kissed his spine between his shoulders and slid her hands across his broad back to his hips.

"I want to finish Ice as soon as possible."

"Yes, and it needs to be done by next week." She planted another kiss on his back. His hands had moved to hers.

"Perhaps, you better ride for the keep again, then, and let me continue?" he whispered, but his voice told her otherwise.

She shook her head, her lips tracing his back from left to right. "Not a chance. I feel very fertile for the moment."

Gendry chuckled, and finally turned around, picked her up and lifted her onto his work beck in front of him. Even in the darkness of the forge, only lit by the glowing red fire of the furnaces, his blue eyes that seemed a shade darker than usual dazzled her. He was grinning at her. "I missed you too, woman," he whispered before his lips locked with hers.

His kiss was loving, explorative, languid and its impact went straight to her aching loins. She had really missed him. He wrapped his arms around her, as he kissed her neck and collar bone, and whispered in his reverberating husky tone – which sent a chill across her back and only deepened her ache – how much he loved his Arya. As he sought her lips and tongue again with more need, his hands cupping her head, his eyes closed, her hands trailed his chest, stomach, his trail of hair peeking out of his low cut britches. Deftly and unhurriedly she unlaced his pants and rubbed her thumb across the bulbous head of his cock, smearing out the drop of pre-cum.

"Oh, woman," he groaned, halting his kiss for a moment to take in a sharp breadth of air. "My wife."

She teased his cock that jumped eagerly to her touch. He moaned and stood frozen, breathing her air expectantly, as she felt the texture, the detail of the ridge, across the small hole in its center. Gendry licked his lips. Arya stopped, leaned back and admired him, as he opened his blue eyes that were dark with lust, the heaving of his broad chest, the britches hugging his hips except for his undone crotch, showing black, curly hair and proud glistening cock.

"What sort of wife are you?" he murmured.

"The bad kind," she said in a challenge, chin and nose turned upwards, her eyes and lips teasing him.

He grinned instantly, from ear to ear. "No, the best kind."

Gendry stepped closer, and his eyes went down to her winter jerkin. His fingers fumbled with her buttons and slowly he opened the jacket, spreading it out behind her, after he wiped the area clear of all tools with one swipe. "It's to protect you from metal splinters," he told her.

His hands went down to the bottom of her tunic and he pulled it off her. That too he lay behind her on the work bench. Next, followed her under tunic, so her chest was as bare as his. He bent over to take a dark nipple in his mouth, as his hands unlaced her britches.

"Lean back and lift your hips," he told her.

And when she did, he yanked her britches down, over her ass and hips, way down to her ankles. The cold of the metal in the hot forge on her bare buttocks added to the sensation. She eased back on her elbows, expecting him to lie over her and enter her. She was all wound up for it already. But he grimaced evilly at her, lowered himself on his knees, and went down on her, teasing her with his tongue and sucking her harder and harder. Arya took in a sharp breath. This was even better, and she nearly collapsed over him, surprised at how ready she had been for this treat of his. He grabbed the cheeks of her ass, kneading them and lifting her hips in such a way he could suck all of her, and she gave in, leaning on her elbows, trembling, shaking and jerking her hips. At some point, as her body started to tense, his hand pressed down onto her chest, forcing her to lie down, and she could give in freely to her own needs. She cried out, when the waves of satisfaction started to pound on her, and she was oblivious to any of her surroundings.


	28. The Knight

Gendry let her come and unravel with his kiss on her throbbing flower, stood, pulled her body towards him as she lay panting and gasping on his work bench, bent over her and slid into her with purposefulness and controlled force. He sought the angle where his thrusting cock would cause the most friction for them both, and continue to rub her still swollen glands and pearl with it. He looked down into her glistening stormy eyes that were still glazed by her orgasm as he thrust hard and rhythmically into her, sending her sliding away from him. Her hands gripped tight for the side of the bench to pull her back towards him and she yelped and gasped with every shove of his, as he rubbed into and against her. He was nearly there, soon, and he eased his chest down on her, grabbing her braid with one hand, and her hips with the other, grunting and groaning.

"Come, love," he gritted through his teeth. "Come again, for me."

He knew she was trying, clenching her one hand onto his ass, pulling herself in that perfect angle with the other that clutched the bench. Gendry leaned his forehead onto her shoulder, trying to keep up for just a little bit longer, for her. But it was too much to ask of himself, and the pounding in his balls began, rushing him towards release, and he felt his seed spurting already and his cock contract and expand as he jerked in and out of her. Any further outer awareness was hurrying at him, but he tried to prolong it, still thrusting, before he knew he would collapse into numbness, mumbling her to join him again in the orgasm. From far away it seemed, he heard her cry out his name in surprise, and felt her convulse and squeeze all that was left out of him just as he crumbled on top of her.

His mind and body drifted for a while, until he became enough aware that all the weight of his chest was on her. He tried to shift, but she moaned displeased and pulled him back onto her.

Gendry chuckled, "I can't stay like this forever, you know."

"Just a bit longer," she mumbled.

He lay down again, but without using all of his weight, and felt her breasts and chest rise against him. He kissed her shoulder. "Did you.."

"Yes," she said in a voice that sounded satisfied. "Twice. You're the best husband I could have ever imagined."

He grinned smugly about himself, and relaxed, listening to the beating of her heart. It had been a while since it had been this satisfying. After their wedding night, she had seemed reluctant, and he supposed it was on account of her bleeding, though she had never complained about that during their journey so far. Gendry had learned to be tender and gentle then, during their travels, and not take her in full, at a more torturous slow, languid pace. It could be as satisfactory for the both of them, he knew. But in their rooms at the Red Keep she had come across as annoyed with his kisses and stroking that usually melted her into his embrace. She had even pushed him away a few times, especially when he tried to kiss or rub her little gem as he had done just this evening. And then the last week he had often arrived at the Red Keep so late, she usually was already sleeping. Most of the time, he had been too exhausted himself with all his vision for Ice took out of him. Though two nights before he had tried to wake her with teasing kisses, because he wanted her so badly. She had pretended to be still asleep. And in the mornings she had been up and about at the break of light. He had been resolved to ask her what was wrong that same night, when he would be back. So, though her surprise visit worried him about her safety, it also was too great an opportunity to let slip by. And this time, she had been very willing to let him please her.

Gendry finally lifted himself, kissed her lips, and stood up, redoing his laces. "Well, I'm relieved. You had me worried for a while."

She was leaning on her elbows, and she looked a picture, with her hair tousled out from her braid and her britches and smallclothes clinging on her boots at her ankles. "I know, I'm sorry, Gendry. It was just, the knowledge of being spied on got to me." She sat up, reached for her smallclothes and britches, pulled them over her knees and jumped from the workbench into them. "They'll be gone by tomorrow."

He grabbed her undershirt and helped her dress and frowned at her. "How come?" But then he saw how she rolled her eyes at him in a meaningful way. He crossed his arms across his chest. "Oh, you're going to kill them," he said accusing.

"Yes, help them find a soft, painless sleep." She picked up the tunic and checked it for metal splinters, shaking it and pulling a splinter out.

"I have never seen any spy lurking about at our rooms."

"They crawl in the walls and ceilings, broken children in pain and being tortured by hunger and thirst." Her voice sounded sad, and she finally pulled the tunic over her head. "Some are trapped and will die anyway."

"You tell yourself this to make yourself feel good about it, is that it? And I guess, I don't get to veto this?"

Arya had avoided looking at him so far, but when she finally did, he saw her eyes were watery. "No, husband, you don't get to veto this." She thumped her fist against her chest and her voice betrayed anguish. "I can feel their presence, their pain, their prayer. Don't you think that if I knew another way, I would not help them? I'm not heartless, Gendry. But I-I just can't breathe there anymore, damn it. I'm only answering their own prayers."

"Putting them out of their misery like a dog," he spat. "Like you told me Joffrey tried to do with your crippled brother Bran."

She was almost sobbing. "Bran couldn't pray for death, Gendry. He was unconscious. P-please d-don't judge me like you are doing now. You don't feel or hear them as I do. And I can't shut them out of my head either. Please, Gendry."

He felt torn, between taking her in his arms and telling her he could not hate her, but he was angry. "You're not a god, Arya. You don't get to decide who lives and who dies."

And just like that her features became distant and her eyes cold. "Plenty of people decide who gets to live or die and how all the time. Cersei, the Mountain, Roose Bolton and Walder Frey, they all decided who could die and who could live." She pointed her finger at invisible ghosts. "I saved you, Gendry, from the Stranger, one of the faces of the many faced god. It might have been set up by Lem and Tom in order to get us married, but you were in the Stranger's clutches, and I saved you. Because of that, the Stranger is owed a life. We both owe the Stranger a life. So, either you tell me a name to kill, or you let me answer the prayers of unsalvageable children who wish to die. I may not live in the House of Black and White anymore, but the Many Faced God is my god, and I am his servant."

"The Others take the Many Faced God," he growled. "You're my wife, not the servant of death. We might just have made a baby on there, just now. And if we did, you'll be a mother, a servant of life." He took a step closer to her, tentatively. How had they gone from lovemaking to having the worst fight they had ever been in? She eyed him wary, but she did allow him to step to her. He placed his hand on her belly and kissed the top of her head. "We may have started a new life tonight. Will you kill someone every time you'll be with child - like a death for a life?" He wrapped his hand around her head and pulled her against his chest. "We are only what we choose to be. We do as we choose to do. There is nobody here to tell you who to kill. There is no god of death here calling you to serve him. Let the prayers pass."

He was shocked when Arya wrapped her arm around his neck and buried her face in his chest, and he felt the wetness of her tears clinging to his skin. "I have to, Gendry. If I don't, I fear he may take you away again. I was No One for so long, a lone wolf with almost all of my family dead – right in front of my very eyes. I did not want to love or feel anything anymore. And now I love you, and I've never been so happy in my life, and I'm scared you'll be taken away from me again."

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her. He understood it better now. She had lost so much, witnessed it, had known them and grew to expect them to always be there, before they were murdered. It had brought her to the cult of death and a belief that she could somehow control death, by giving it to those who prayed for it, by asking for a name, to spare those she wanted to live. And that she was so desperate to have him live, made him smile – he was slowly stealing her dark heart.

"Y-You can't promise me that," she blubbered. "Every man has to die some day. I just wish it will be later than sooner."

He lifted her chin to make her look at him, through the blur of her tears. "How about this – answering prayers for death in order to magically protect me from the Stranger will not save me. I'd rather you just save me when I need saving." And he placed a kiss on her upturned freckled nose. But he could see that stubborn glint in her eyes, and she refrained from answering him. He knew she would be answering the prayers of Varys' little birds, like she said, and there was nothing he could do about it. Gendry sighed. But at least she would not be using his life as an excuse to kill people who posed no threat to him or her. "Come on, let's go back to the Red Keep. It's too late for me to do any further work, and I don't want you to ride through the streets all by yourself."

As he started to clean the bench and she had dried her tears, she asked curious, "Can I see how much you have progressed?" Her hand already reaching for the cloth he had used as a cover, once he realized she was in the forge.

"No." He took her hand and turned her away. "You'll see it when it's done." Ice had not been the sole thing he had been working on. He was making Arya a wedding gift, to replace Widow Wail's hilt he had to melt down. Gendry needed to let Ice rest for the spells to do their work, which gave him time in between to work on other projects. But neither Ice nor his gift were ready, and he did not want her to see it yet. He realized too that both their fight as well as their lovemaking would now be part of Ice's memory, as he had no time for a temporary sealing spell. He spoke the words of the spell, so it would not be further disturbed.

When Gendry sealed the forge, he took a few quick strides to let the servant girl Annie know he was off, but not to disturb the master, and asked her for his shirt, tunic, mail and cloak. Annie peeked around the door of the front house, when she noticed Arya waiting for him in the little yard. She quickly curtsied to Arya, turned red as a beet, mumbled, "Your Highness," while Gendry dressed. She then followed Gendry and Arya to the backdoor, to lock it behind them.

The snow was falling steadily now. The sky was a purple, black-grey with dancing snowflakes falling and blurring the view. It was as if the gods were holding a massive pillow fight. Their feet crunched the thick pack of fresh snow, and Gendry helped Arya vault _Winter_. Arya rolled her eyes at him for it, but he ignored it. It was just something a husband did for his wife. At least she had stopped scolding him over such things. He lifted himself onto _Black_ , wheeled him around and urged him on to follow Arya who was already receding from view in the snowfall, while he muttered angrily under his breath how much disregard Arya had for her own safety. They wounded down the Street of Steel, crossed an empty Fishmonger's Square and the Mud Gate and turned into the Hook for the Red Keep.

Gendry still had not caught up with her and he could not see her through the blur of falling snow, but he heard her ahead of him at least. Next, two or three men stumbled out of an inn, shouting and laughing.

"Hey," one shouted, "What's a pretty little lass doing out so late all by herself? Nice horse you have here."

"Don't…"

And then Winter neighed and as Gendry had managed to close the distance, he could see Winter rearing twice wildly as three burly men tried to grab for the reins. Arya shrieked as she was thrown off and landed hard on the snow covered cobblestones. The men were quick to hover over her. But Gendry was already charging at them with his drawn broadsword.

"Get your hands off my wife, sirs," growled Gendry as he held it against the throat of the man grabbing for Arya. He was somewhere in his thirties, with two massive scars across his face and a gap between his yellow teeth.

The other men held their hands high, teetering on their drunken legs. "We meant no harm, m'lord. I-It was all just a misunderstanding. Gowin here only meant to check whether the lady was hurt from the fall, is that not so, Gowin?"

Gowin rolled his watery, pale eyes downward towards the blade against his throat. "Y-yes, m'lord. No harm intended."

"Step away," said Gendry, still glaring at the men, "and run." The three drunken men did not need another moment to think it over.

Gendry dismounted Black and instantly hunched down to check on Arya. She was trying to reach for her ankle, bending her leg, and her face betrayed pain. Carefully, he reached for her boot and she yelped. "I twisted it," she said. "I think."

Gendry applied some pressure to her ankle to check whether it was broken or not, and she gritted her teeth when he did so. "It doesn't seem broken." He leaned over and told her to put her arm around his shoulder, so he could help her get up. "Can you stand on it?" he asked.

But when Arya tried, she yelped from the pain, even if but her toes touched the ground. "No, stupid."

He cocked his eyebrows at that but then shook his head, dismissing her blunt utterance as one in frustration. It had not been the first time that she suddenly had a sharp tongue. Without hesitation he lifted her in his arms, helped her on Black and mounted him behind her. Meanwhile, he muttered, "Who was being the stupid one to ride ahead all by herself in this snow where you can't see three feet ahead of you?"

She thumped his shoulder, "Oh, don't you start. I'm in pain. I get to call you whatever I like right now." But then she laid her head on his shoulder and whispered, "I'm sorry, Gendry. I should not say such things."

"Hmmm." _Winter_ stood waiting ahead of them, calmly, as if she had not panicked just a few moments before. Gendry leaned to the side to grab Winter's bridles, handed them to Arya, and said, "Let's get you back." As they continued through the dark street, only lit by a torch here or there, candles in some windows and the light of an inn every six or seven houses streaming onto the street, he said, "How did you get unhorsed even? I've seen you cling to rearing horses without a problem before."

"She was slipping over the snow and cobblestones, unexpectedly, and I slipped out of the stirrups with my good foot, while the other was still caught in the other one. That's how I twisted my stupid ankle."

"Well, no more tramping about in the city or the keep for you for several days, M'lady," Gendry pointed out the obvious. She grumbled something inaudible between her teeth in response. "What's that, wife?"

"I said I won't spend my days lying in bed."

"I'll keep you company if you want," he whispered in her ear, and that finally made her chortle through the pain.

"You're right, I was being careless," she finally admitted.

"Hmmm," was all he gave as a response, smiling.

"Is that all?" she asked incredulously. "No gloating, no _I told you so_ from you?"

Gendry shook his head. "It's enough for me that you admitted it. Your ankle is pain enough, I suppose." But then finally he said more sternly, "We're a pair now and need to look out after each other. So, no more of this _I can show how much I can do things all by myself_." Arya pouted and remained silent. "Promise me, Arya. You're always going on about wolf packs and how they stick together, but you frown upon any gesture of help. I'm your wolf and you're mine. I know you can take care of yourself and that you've been a lone wolf for years. But you're not alone anymore. You have me."

Gendry could feel her soften in his arms, and she said, "Yes, Gendry."

"What's that, Arya? Could you please repeat that?"

She jabbed his biceps that was not protected by a mail shirt and stuck her tongue out. "You said it was enough that I admitted it."

"About your carelessness before, yes. But I can make sure that I've heard it right about your promise to me."

"Fine, I promise," she said begrudgingly. He smiled and rode into the gate to the stables, and helped her of Black and lifted her in his arms again to carry her to their apartments. "I can still hobble on my one good foot, you know."

He cocked his eyebrows at her. "What did you just promise me, out there? This is quicker and less painful. Besides, I love carrying you. It's my excuse to get my hands all over you in public. Why else do you think I always want to lift you onto Winter?" Arya buried her face in his neck and giggled.

As they entered the main apartment, her Dothraki handmaidens were fussing all over them. "She sprained her ankle. Rhiki, would you please fetch some fresh snow from the yard, quickly." He picked up a towel and threw it at the girl. "Use this to gather it." He laid her down on the bed, and started to pull off her boot. Arya winced from the pain, and he thanked an out of breath Rhiki who handed him the towel with snow, which he applied to her ankle. "Keep this onto your ankle for at least an hour, Arya. It will keep it from swelling. So far, your boot restricted the swelling, but now that it's off, it'll grow humongous otherwise, and hurt even more."

Jhiri nodded. "It is known," she said.

Gendry turned to Phiri, "Go and get Maester Qyburn." And finally he ordered Jhiri to get a bath ready, and explained. "That's for myself. I'm all soot and sweat underneath from the forge."

Qyburn ordered Arya to rest her foot on a pillow for at least a day or two, apply a balm he would provide for her, as well as regularly use a snow pack to keep the swelling down. Once she felt ready, she was allowed to use a crutch to walk around, but was not allowed to put any weight on her ankle. Gendry had never seen his wife look as annoyed as then. She was not one to sit still, and after Qyburn left their rooms, she was obstinately lifting herself from the bed and jumped on one leg to the table for the late dinner that had been ordered for them in the kitchens. As they ate at opposing sides she lifted her eyebrows at him, daring him to say anything about it.

Gendry simply rolled his eyes. "Just keep to the room for tonight at least, Arya. Hobbling through the corridors might not be worth your while. You're only inconveniencing yourself."

"I'm not dying, and I don't need to be fed," she said.

It provoked him to pick up a spoon of his peas with mash and held it out for her. "I wouldn't mind, though."

Arya looked him in the eyes, as she bent closer and took the presented food in her mouth and licked her lips afterwards. "Hmmm, yummy."

He started to grin as he felt his blood rush to his cock. "I know ways to keep you in bed and your foot up."

She pricked her fork violently in the sausage, which spoiled the moment a little. "You need to bathe first - you stink." And to emphasize her words she sniffled her nose and made a face, but her eyes were playful.

"You didn't mind that earlier."

"Because a forge isn't a featherbed."

She hopped back to the bed and grabbed something to read after she finished, and he eased himself in the bath that Jhiri had readied for him. By the time he felt clean and stepped out of it, she lay deep asleep, mouth open, book in her hand. Gently he removed the book, blew out the candle and settled in the spacious bed beside her.

By the morning, Arya was already limping around the room, when he woke. She ushered him out as quickly as possible, telling him he needed to have Ice ready before Jaime's trial. He barely had time to finish his omelet and bread. And when he returned by nightfall, he found her in the best of moods, in some thin shift that barely made her any less naked. She was even humming to herself – the bear and the maiden fair – and practically ordered him to keep her abed and her wrapped ankle high, and he happily obliged until the point of exhaustion.

"I really like that shift," he murmured, still relishing the memory of a cloth that clung to her body, leaving the suggestive shadows of her nipples and curly hair as well as the pink gleam of her naked skin underneath; how it allowed him to suckle her breasts through the thin fabric and exposing even more of her body underneath the wet patches; not to mention the vision of the fabric being bunched up high at her hips, as he had settled between her legs.

As he was drifting asleep, she whispered, "Tomorrow you'll visit Jaime together with Brienne."

"Hmmm," was all he could say, and he put his arm around her to pull her to him.

He woke well beyond the first light of day. The sun was out and the sky blue. It had stopped snowing for once. He realized the bed was empty, and then was startled by Jhiri setting up his breakfast. "Where's Arya?" he asked, rubbing his eyes out. It had been a long while since he had slept this long.

"Arya … l-library," Jhiri tested the new word.

"But she can't walk," he said.

"Qyburn bring crutch."

That would explain it of course. "She went alone?"

"No, with small man…d-dwarf."

"With Tyrion?"

Jhiri nodded, and gestured at his breakfast. "Brienne waiting for you outside."

And then he remembered. Arya had told him to finally visit Jaime Lannister. She had so far forbidden any of them to visit the Kingslayer in his new highborn prison arrangements. But something had changed. And then he remembered the night before with his wife and she had enjoyed their joining as relaxed and willingly as before they arrived in King's Landing. He blanched at the thought bubbling up – _she killed the little birds_. How she had done that confined to a bed all day, he had no idea, but he was sure of it. He rubbed his forehead, his mood foul all of a sudden. _She calls me stubborn like a mule, but she's worse._

He looked up and noticed Jhiri still looking at him expectantly. "Well, go on, Jhiri, you can bring her in." And as Jhiri already walked for the door, he added, "But not before I'm dressed."

Once Jhiri was gone, he jumped out of the bed and searched for a fresh set of clothes. Since King's Landing he had several sets of black clothes, some of the finest materials. He had once asked Arya how she got the money for it all – the ship, the clothes, and so on. She had cryptically said that the guild had not let her leave without means, although admittedly much of her own clothes had been gathered during their travels at the different castles they had visited, and had been fitted to her size by the handmaidens.

Gendry went to the table and sat down at his breakfast – beans and sausage and bread. And he shouted, "Yes, you can come in now." He was surprised at how he had grown accustomed to have people serve him and even ordering them around. Not so long before, he had done everything himself, without anyone laying his clothes out for him. And Arya had gone without it for a long while too. At first, it had been annoying, but now he rarely thought about it.

Brienne stepped inside, looking awkward. She was wearing a dress, which made her look more gawky than her male attire. "Ser Gendry."

With his mouth full he waved his knife in the air, and then swallowed his food down. "Please, Brienne, just Gendry. Come, sit. You want a plate of this? I've more than enough to share."

"No, thank you, I already broke my fast, earlier," she said stiffly.

He laid his knife and spoon down. He still preferred a spoon over those pesky forks that did not seem to hold any food really. And he looked at her. She looked forlorn as if she did not know what she was doing here anymore. She had surrendered Oathkeeper to him and Arya had surrendered Jaime to the queen, and nobody really had seen to her the past weeks. "We're visiting Jaime today," he said. "His trial is in less than a week. He asked for a trial by combat. Ice will be ready before that."

Brienne put her fingers to her lips. "So, I will not be able to save him from a scaffold," she said with a sneer.

Gendry looked up. He had rarely known Brienne to be bitter, but she was now. "I never asked before, not from you or Jaime, but what happened in the Riverlands? How did you manage to escape?"

"He was angry and hurt by my betrayal. When the Freys came down on us, he ran. But when they were about to hang me, he returned with some men of his own and demanded me as his personal prisoner."

"And were you?"

"Officially, yes. Dragged me in chains to Casterly Rock, and proclaimed me his hostage. Sole harm he did me was insist on sharing his table and wear dresses, really."

Gendry smiled at the idea alone. "Were you there, when he killed Cersei?"

"Yes. She found us embracing." Brienne blushed a deep pink. "She lost it, saying the most vile things at him, and attempting to attack me with a knife." She bowed her head. "It was the only time we ever kissed." Her voice broke with grief. "He saved me four times, Gendry, and I can't even save him once."

Gendry pushed his plate away from him. "We'll see about that." He stood, pushing the chair back with his boot, and called for Jhiri to fetch two wineskins. "Let's go have a drink in the dungeons," he said when Jhiri returned with the wine – one Arbor gold and a Dornish strongwine. Hot Pie gave him anything he requested without questions asked. Gendry knew that Jaime preferred the latter over the first.

Although the warden of the cells, Chendric, said he could not allow two visitors all at once, one wineskin of Arbor Gold was an easy bribe. When Brienne and him entered Jaime's spacious prison cell, they saw him sitting at the window looking out. His cell was an enormous improvement to what the black cells had been. Though it was not as large as an apartment, it had a normal bed, a table, some chairs and even some decoration at the walls.

"Brought you some wine," said Gendry.

Jaime turned his head and looked at him. He had a beard, several weeks old, but otherwise seemed surprisingly presentable, in his britches and white shirt. "About time. I've been allowed visitors for at least half a moon, and the only visitors I've seen so far, were the ones I didn't want to see – my vicious brother and that brat of a dragon queen." Jaime got up from his seat at the window. "Weren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Yes, but Arya saved me," Gendry grinned.

Jaime walked to a chair. "Well, what do you know. She had a plan after all." He shoved the chair from under the table with his boot, and sat down.

"Well it wasn't her plan really, but Lem's and Tom's." Gendry picked the sole cup in the room and poured the wine. "Dornish strongwine," he said.

Jaime lifted it to his lips and waited for Gendry to tell more. "Go on."

"She claimed me as a maiden for her husband; married me on the scaffold."

The precious wine spouted all over. "What?" And then Jaime laughed. "They should make a song about that – the outlaw and the maiden fair."

Gendry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, they already did – the scaffold king's wife, they call it. Tom wrote it."

Jaime leaned back on his chair, with one elbow hanging over the back and his legs outstretched under the table, his green eyes sparkling and an actual fond smile over his face. "So, here's to your marriage." He lifted the cup to his lips. His smile turned sardonic. "You're lucky the septon didn't require your _maiden_ to be inspected first."

Gendry had the decency to blush about that, before saying, "Watch it Jaime, you're talking about my wife's honor."

"Hmmm," hummed Jaime as he took another swallow from his beaker, while glancing at Brienne for a moment. She had taken a seat silently. "Damn, I shouldn't have asked for a trial by combat, if I'd known that actually worked."

"Ice will be ready, before the trial," said Gendry.

Jaime lifted his golden hand, his face stone hard once more. "And how am I to fight with a greatsword?"

"I could be your champion," whispered Brienne. "I can wield it."

Jaime's face flashed with anger and he growled, "I want none of that."

"But…" Brienne started miserably.

"No! I'll not have you killed for my sins. The gods will judge _me_ , no one else." His green eyes looked hard at Gendry. "And Arya and you won't step in either, you hear me. I'll be my own champion." Brienne started to weep silently, and Jaime reached out to her with his good hand. "And if the gods grant me life, I'll go to your father and present myself as your suitor."

Gendry understood Jaime's refusal against Brienne being his champion. Gendry would outright refuse Arya to do the same for him, and he certainly would veto Arya of considering doing it for Jaime. The Kingslayer did not need to fear for that. Arya could not hope to fight for a while with her sprained ankle. Still, Brienne was their best single combat warrior. Jaime was a master, but he was older and the years of imprisonment and war had taken its physical toll on the man. On top of that, they could use a seasoned commander as Jaime for their campaign.

Jaime let go of Brienne's hands and met Gendry's eyes. His expression was resigned, except for a trace of a smile. Gendry knew by now it was not really a smile at all. Unless Jaime scowled, his mouth always had a hint of a grin. Combined with the glitter of his inquisitive green eyes, it left little wonder why people often found him so arrogant when they did not know the man that well. "So, what more news, beside you being a married brother of the watch, Ice apparently going along fine, and my trial in a few days?"

"Queen Daenerys, the council and the wardens of the kingdom are giving us an army of ten thousand for a campaign against the Twins and to retake the North."

Jaime whistled a long appreciative tone. He nodded slowly. "Nice!" But then he looked pensive at his cup. "That will be a harsh one. The snow lies thick here already. It will be worse at the Twins. You'll have to hold a winter siege, and most likely starve before they do. They don't need to feed ten thousand men and over two thousand horses. And besieging it from only one side is pretty useless anyway."

"If the Neck is frozen, then so will be the Green Fork," said Brienne, trying to regain her composure.

Jaime rubbed his bearded chin. "Yes. If winter is harsh enough, a frozen Green Fork might give you the opportunity to divide the troops for a siege on both sides of the Twins. And of course amongst Walder Frey's sons or grandsons there is one bound to betray the rest in order to become Lord of the Twins, and might leave at least one portcullis open to get inside."

"How big a host could Walder Frey summon?" Gendry asked.

"Give or take about two thousand," said Jaime. "The rest were slain in the Battle of the Ice Lake near Winterfell."

Brienne nodded. "It could be doable that way."

"But you still need to solve the food issue," said Jaime. "Is my brother willing to free Edmure Tully for this? He's a hostage at Casterly Rock."

"Tyrion wants the Lannister host out of the Riverlands to protect your homeland against the Ironborn," said Gendry. "If Edmure is willing to let bygones be bygones and not revenge himself on the Westerlands, then Tyrion was in support of reinstating Edmure over Riverrun again."

"Hmmm, Emmon Frey won't be happy about that. He was made Lord of Riverrun, because he always remained faithful to us, even when Robb Stark still lived." But then Jaime smiled. "He's the one to bribe - the Twins for Riverrun, with the backing of the Lannisters." He poured his cup full again. "My brother has other hostages at Casterly Rock. House Blackwood were the last ones to fight against Frey domination, even after the Red Wedding. They'll jump at the chance to fight along your side. Hoster Blackwood is a hostage."

"But then House Bracken will side with the Freys," said Brienne.

Jaime put his head to the side, nodding but at the same time indicating that was not much of a loss. "Seagard! It's closest to the Twins, and it could ensure a food supply line to the army. The Malisters will turn too if given the opportunity. They did not even join me in the siege of Riverrun, though they bent the knee after Black Walder threatened to kill the heir Patrek, also hostage at Casterly Rock."

Gendry asked, "How come all those hostages are at Casterly Rock instead of the Twins?"

Jaime grinned. "King Tommen followed my advice. If the Freys kept the hostages they took during the Red Wedding they could always turn their coat against us. A good thing we did. Now we can set them free and turn our cloak."

"What about House Smallwood?" Gendry asked. "Acorn Hall was one of the houses the Brotherhood could get shelter for a night."

Jaime cocked his eyebrows. "They did? Ah, interesting and good thinking. It's more to the south and could be used as a supply line as well. House Piper of Pinkmaiden near the borders of the Westerlands will service too. Marq Piper is a hostage as well and good friends with Edmure. And of course both of Houses Vance." He drank a good swallow from the wine and set the cup down with a bang. "That's it, basically. You probably won't need to fight much at all. Once those Houses come to your side, the rest will follow, except for the Brackens. But you'll need to negotiate for food from the Reach being sent to those houses." And then he smirked, smug. "Seven hells, I never thought all that negotiating I did in the Riverlands would ever serve me so well." Gendry sat for a moment, staring at Jaime in disbelief. He had made it sound all so simple. Jaime clapped him on his shoulder. "You can remember all that, boy?

Brienne smiled at Gendry. "I'll help you with that, Ser Gendry."

"I hope the bloody hell you win that trial by combat, Jaime," grumbled Gendry. "Not sure if Lem would have come up with all of that."

The Kingslayer smiled at him. "Me too. I'd like to be there, just to see Walder Frey's look on his face when he realizes what the hell happened."

Later, when he walked back to their chambers to fetch his cloak and prepare to go to Tobho Mott's, he noticed a young boy of around nine or ten waiting nervously in the corridor. "The princess is not here," he said. The boy stared at him, mouth ajar. "Well, what is it, boy?"

The child closed his mouth and said quickly, "I came for you."

"For me?" Gendry jerked his head around to stare at the boy, while he had his hand on the door handle.

"I want to squire for you, Ser."

Gendry froze. _Bloody seven hells, a squire?_ "I don't need no squire, boy," said Gendry. "Brothers of the Night Watch don't have squires."

"But you are a knight, Ser Baratheon, about to go to war. And knights have squires."

Gendry inspected the boy much closer than before. He had hair between the color of blond and brown and bright blue eyes, and was finely dressed, with a sigil of three stalks of yellow wheat on a brown background. "Who are you, boy?"

The boy beamed a proud smile at him, puffing up his chest. "Arthur Selmy, Ser, at your service."

Gendry squinted at the boy. "And who sent you, Arthur?"

"I did." And then he looked at his shuffling feet. "Well, my Lord father Arstan Selmy sent me to King's Landing to squire for Lord Baratheon, but he's not going anywhere, and I like you better. So, I'd like to squire for you, Ser, if you'll have me."

Gendry hunched down, laid his hands on the boy's shoulders and looked at him with all sincerity. "War is dangerous, Arthur. I think you would do better to remain with Lord Baratheon; do what your father told you."

But the boy stubbornly shook his head. "No, Ser, please, Ser. I want to be as great a knight as my great-great-uncle Ser Barristan Selmy was, Ser. There are other boys wanting to squire for you too, but please let me."

Gendry scratched his head, still finding the whole idea ridiculous. "Well, at least come along inside. I have to go to the forge, now, though. But ask any of the handmaidens for anything you may want, until I return tonight."

He thought of setting Arthur at the table, have the handmaidens take care of the boy's needs, and let Arya deal with Arthur Selmy. But his self appointed squire followed him around and picked up whatever he was reaching for, like his fur cloak, saying, "Please, Ser, allow me." And that was basically how he ended up having a squire.


	29. The Reader

It had been the book that she had found lying around in the room, that had given her the idea. Rowland had paid her a visit the first day she was supposed to remain in bed with her sprained foot. Almost absentmindedly he had left the book on the table. She had limped to the table to look at it and have it returned, but its title had made her curious to read it herself – _Legends of the North_. They read like old Nan’s stories for children, but as she started to read closer, she realized quite a lot of them were about skinchangers and wargs, but also the Night King and the Others. Rowland must have left it on purpose and found it in a library. _Of course, King’s Landing has a library!_

She had hobbled on her crutch as soon as she woke to Tyrion Lannister, and told Jhiri to allow her husband to sleep and not disturb him until well in the morning. Tyrion himself was only half dressed and appeared in his office with his hair in all directions and his already twisted face crumpled by sleep and hangover, in just his breeches and white shirt and no shoes.

“This better be good, Princess Arya,” he yawned and stretched himself.

“I need your help with gathering certain books.”

“Books.” His face grew even more grouchy and his sleepy eyes twinkled menacing. He hopped on his chair. “You had me hauled out of bed this early in the morning, for books. Do I look like a librarian to you?”

Arya shrugged her shoulders. “I know you like to read books, so I gather you know almost every book in the library there is. And I need to see every book the library has about wargs, skinchangers, the Long Night, the Night King, the Others, House Stark, House Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, Dawn, my father’s sword Ice, and this Azor Ahai.”

Tyrion coughed a couple of times. “Books about grumkins, giants and little men in hills – children’s stories,” he snarled. “That is what is so urgent? Did I give your husband a child for a wife? Will he be knocking on my door next, asking for dolls for his child bride?” He reached for the glass pitcher of wine and filled a glass. “You should be asking for books on sieges and war tactics, not some scary stories parents tell their children to make them behave, or else _the thing that comes in the night_ will catch them like those ‘pprentice boys.” She folded her arms in front of her and looked at him disapprovingly for drinking that early in the day already. “Helps with the hangover, princess,” he mumbled.

“Actually, I wonder what the thing that came in the night is. Sounds even scarier than the Others or wights.”

He set his half empty glass down. “I’ll bet it was some wildling who killed a few boys. Or maybe it was Mad Axe who killed his brothers, and the same story ended up having two versions.”

“Who returns every hundred years? Dragons are real, though I haven’t seen one yet with my own eyes, except for the skulls in the throne room.”

Tyrion sliced his palm through the air. “There’s the difference. At least there were skulls as evidence that they once existed.”

She leaned closer and whispered, “Wargs are real too.”

“And how would you know about wargs being real?”

She whispered, “Because I am one.” Arya knew she was taking a big gamble in confessing this to Tyrion, but she knew now that this man was one of the few who truly believed he was doing what was best for the realm. Something in her gut told her he could be trusted.

“You are one,” repeated Tyrion skeptically.

“Queen Daenerys has dragon dreams; I have wolf dreams. I’ve seen a lot of Freys being slaughtered by the Riverland packs in my dreams.”

“Like who?” Tyrion asked, but he was more attentive to what she was saying.

“I don’t know their names, but I will describe them to you and exactly how they were killed.” She recounted every detail she remembered about them.

“Edwyn Frey and Black Walder,” Tyrion said more soberly than he had let on first. “It’s not a secret they were killed by wolves, though.” Still, he eyed her with a piqued curiosity. “This is nuts, but alright, I will help you,” Tyrion said begrudgingly.

And that is how the two of them spent their day in the library, reading as much as they could find. At some point, Tyrion climbed onto a chair and then sat himself on the table, leafing through the book Arya was trying to read. “So, what is it like? Warging I mean.”

“Quite fun actually, and I find it rather easy. It’s in the Stark blood. See!” She pointed her finger at a passage of the book about Stark ancestry.

Tyrion turned half way around to read the passage skeptically. “Grumkins,” he murmured.

“You don’t need to believe me, Tyrion. I just have nobody to teach me about any of this, and so must make do what I can find. Books are a source. You helped Queen Daenerys with your dragon knowledge from books.” She leafed through the book again. “Now, I just want to read these stories about the Nightfort.”

Tyrion shook his head and threw his hands in the air. “Great! More, grumkins.”

“I think I may know who your Tysha is in Braavos,” she whispered.

Tyrion gaped at her, his face first as pale as snow and then red with anger. His green and black eye did all sorts of things. “H-how… Where…”

“Chendric’s cat, Ser Pounce – when you visited the Kingslayer a week ago.”

“That… that…” He was near ready to explode. She had never seen him look as vicious as then, not even when he said the foulest things to Jaime.

She held her hand up in the air to stop him and said, “In the Happy Port in Braavos there works the Sailor’s Wife, dark of hair and slender, and of Westeros. She has a daughter, Lanna, gold of hair, and she gave birth to her at ten and four. Lanna should be eight and ten now, and her mother two and thirty. The Sailor’s Wife only beds men who wed her, and she prays to any god at the Isle for the return of her lost, sole, true husband.”

For a long moment, Tyrion did not speak at all, but only stared at her, slowly returning back to a more healthy color. He did not speak for several minutes and finally slid down from the library’s reading table. He paced back and forth, his fingers twisting his bottom lip in contemplation. Tyrion halted, opened his mouth, looked at Arya, and then he started pacing again.

“Your brother may have lied about your wife being a whore as your father commanded him to, but he was not the one who raped her and paid her,” she said with empathy. “Your father would have had her raped by his men regardless.”

“If it were not for his lie I would not have…” he barked.

“Is that what you truly believe? Do not blame your brother for your own choice and actions,” Arya said. “He has his sins and crimes to answer for with the gods, but yours are your own. Your hatred of Jaime is your self-hatred projected onto him.”

Tyrion stormed off after that, and she continued her reading, though she could make little sense of it. There was this Brandon Stark, and that Brandon Stark, so many Brandons – some she never had heard of before - that she could make head nor tail of it. It was almost as if the Brandon names were used on purpose to obfuscate the truth behind the stories. She started to yawn, and finally noticed it had grown dark, and for a moment the sounds and noises of the castle spooked her. She called for the librarian to help her take the book about the Long Night and the Night’s King to her room, while she hopped along on her crutch.

She opened the door and walked into a scene where Jhiri, Rhiki and Phiri were giving all of their attention to a young boy, putting all sorts of snacks in front of him.

The boy immediately stood and bowed to her, while he was still chewing on a tiny sausage roll, and muffled, “M-our High-mess.”

“And who might you be?”

He finally swallowed his roll down. “Ser Gendry Baratheon’s squire, Your Highness. My name is Arthur Selmy,” the boy quipped full of pride, puffing up his chest. “But you can call me Art, if you’d like.”

She laughed. “And my husband agreed to this?”

“Yes?” said Arthur unsure.

“How old are you, Arthur?”

“I’m already nine, Your Highness. I know all about dressing a man, and polishing boots and armor.”

She nodded, reminded of another squire she once knew at Harrenhall. “And what do you think of girls and cupbearers, Art?”

“Your Highness?” Art asked confused.

Arya shook her head. “Never you mind.” She already liked the boy for some odd reason, and she ruffled her hand through his mop of hair. “I’ll order us some dinner. Ser Gendry won’t return until much later.” She whispered in his ear, “He’s on a secret mission for me.”

When Brienne showed up to give her a report about the meeting with Jaime, Arthur gaped at the Beauty’s tall figure in a dress, not with abhorrence but the unabashed curiosity of a child. Arya explained the woman who he was.

Brienne’s eyes became soft. “I too once had a squire, Podrick Payne. Well he was Tyrion’s squire actually and he trailed me in my search for Sansa, in the hope of finding Tyrion again, and I agreed he could join me in my quest.”

“What happened to him?” Arthur asked the question that burned on Arya’s lips.

She smiled sadly for a moment and then turned away from the boy. “He was hanged by the Freys as being one of the Brotherhood, before they tried to hang me, and Jaime saved me.”

“Which Frey was that then?” asked Arya.

“Black Walder.”

 _Well, Nymeria took care of that one already_ , Arya thought. “How fares Jaime?” she finally asked.

Brienne snapped out of her thoughts. “He’s adamant about being his own champion. He won’t allow me to fight for him.”

“I’m not surprised,” Arya sighed.

“But hearing of the queen’s gift to you has lifted his spirits enough to want to live beyond his trial by combat, and he told us of a plan to give us the best advantage.”

And so, she explained Jaime’s plan, the names of the houses needing to be informed, the hostages Tyrion was to release, where the Reach could send supplies for an advancing army of ten thousand. Again, letters would need to be written, and Arya groaned at the idea of asking Tyrion for favors after she had not likely made him a friend that day. Brienne left soon after.

Meanwhile, Arthur had sought something to do, and when Arya turned towards him, she discovered he was polishing Needle. Arya had never liked it when someone else touched it, certainly not after she had found it after losing it once. For a moment, she wanted to snatch it out of Arthur’s hands. But she told herself he was only polishing it.

“Was this Ser Gendry’s first sword, Your Highness?” Arthur asked, as he held it up, inspecting the shine of it with one eye closed. “It looks like a child’s sword,” he said, and yet not dismissing it. “It’s not anything like a common longsword, but it’s beautiful, and I guess it could kill if you use the pointy end.”

Arthur was right. It is a child’s sword, she thought. It was getting too small for herself really. “It was mine,” she finally said. “My brother, Jon, had it made for me. It was the last time I saw him and my home,” she said with emotion. “And you can call me Princess Arya, Art.”

The boy brought it down again and immediately returned it where he had found it. “I-I’m sorry, Your Highness, euhm… Your Princess… Princess Arya.”

Arya shook her head, and hobbled over to Needle herself. “No need, Art.” She picked it up and felt the weight. It was so light and absurdly small, and would be of little use to her in the war to come. Arya closed her eyes and allowed herself to wash all the emotions of her past and her memories about it over her, and then she did something she never imagined herself doing. She held it out to Arthur. “It is yours now. I see you do not have a sword yet, Art, but a squire should have one. It’s called Needle, and yes it can kill and has killed. I can teach you how to use it, when my foot is better again.”

Arthur Selmy eyed it hesitantly, and for a moment Arya believed he would scorn it or refuse it, but then she saw a sparkle in his light blue eyes, and he took it as if it was a sword of legends. He blushed. “T-thank you, Princess Arya.”

She felt a pang of loss when Needle switched owners and a part of her wanted to take it again, but she remembered Gendry’s words in Braavos. How swords and names were just things. The memories were in her mind and in her heart and would stay there. She had no need of a child’s sword to remind herself, and she was not a child either anymore. She smiled at Arthur and ruffled his hair. “Would you like to hear some stories about the Long Night?” she asked. The boy nodded. “Then get that big book on the table and bring it here.” She sat down on the bed, and had Arthur sit with her, as she opened it to the last page.

When Gendry finally returned with a pack of cloth in his arms, she lay on her belly on the bed, still reading, while Arthur had fallen asleep. She looked up at him, smiling, as he stared at her and Arthur. “He’s still here,” Gendry stated the obvious.

“Yes,” said Arya. “He’s a good kid.”

“I thought you would send him back to where he came from.”

She laughed. “If you don’t want a squire, husband, you’ll have to send him away.”

Gendry scowled at first, but then noticed Needle on Arthur’s belt. “Why does he have Needle?”

“I gave it to him,” she answered in a light tone. “It’s too small for me now. What’s that in your arms?”

“A gift,” he said, “for you.”

“For me?” she whispered excitedly. She sat up and hopped to the foot end of the bed.

He smiled and then blushed. “Like a wedding gift.” She held out her arms, while Gendry removed the cloth and revealed a breast plate of armor to her, with inlaid rubies in the shape of a heart. “Figured, I wanted you to wear something protective when going to war, leading an army. I used the rubies from Widow’s Wail.”

Arya stood on her one foot and resting the toes of her sprained ankle on the rug, for him to fit it. When he held it against her chest and then fixed the straps, she asked, “How did you know to make it my size?” while patting her armored chest.

Gendry chuckled and winked at her. “I measured you every chance I got.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I can make other armor if you want to, and perhaps a new Needle for you?”

She hugged him. “No more needles. But I’d like a second broadsword.” Then she pouted. “But now I don’t have a gift for you.”

He laughed. “You already gave me a gift, you, and perhaps in time a child.” Then he sighed and looked down on Arthur, “I guess I’ll carry him to the chamber next door, with Jhiri, Rhiki and Phiri.”

While Gendry lifted Arthur in his arms and disappeared through a side door, Arya looked at herself with the breast plate in the long mirror. The plate was colored ice blue, almost white, except for the heart formed in the rubies, that looked darer against the rest of the plate. “A Dark Heart,” she whispered to herself.

She looked up when she heard Gendry cough as he leaned against the doorpost. “Figured it was appropriate after you killed the eyes and ears in the walls.” His tone was serious, as was the set of his jaw.

Arya sighed. She knew their fight over that issue was unfinished. “You misunderstand my religion, Gendry. My master once told me, like you, I was not a god who could decide who was deserving of death. Everybody will die, regardless of how they lived – the rich, the poor, the lucky, the unlucky, the good and the bad, the loved and the hated, the happy and the suffering.”

“And yet, they kill.”

“Only those who have no wish to live anymore and pray for death, and those others pray for to die, for a price.”

“Hired killers for money.”

She shook her head. “No, for free sometimes for those who suffered and gave up, for volunteering to become one of them, for an axe thrown to a burning cage and save three lives from the flames of the red god,…” she looked into his blue eyes.

Gendry stared at her and shut the door behind him. “What are you trying to say?” He walked to one of the eating chairs and sat down.

She joined him at the table in another chair. He pushed a third chair in her direction with his boot for her to rest her foot on. “Have you never wondered how I came to know of them or ended up joining them?”

“Many times.”

“One night, a company of men and boys and one girl traveling for the wall were attacked by Ser Amory and two hundred of his soldiers. Right before some of them could flee in an underground tunnel, the girl ran to an axe and threw it at three caged criminals about to die in a fire. These three were saved by the axe and joined the army at Harrenhall. One of them was of the guild, and when later he met the girl again at Harrenhall, who felt like a scared little mouse, he told her that she owed three lives to the God of Many Faces and that she could give him any three names for him to kill, including King Joffrey.

“The first name was Chiswyck, who aided the Tickler and boasted of a gang raping an innkeeper’s daughter no older than thirteen. Weese was the second name for beating the girl. Then the girl realized she should make the third name count, maybe Tywin or Ser Amory. Then warriors of the girl’s brother were brought in as prisoners and she asked the assassin to help her free them, which he refused. Only a name to kill could she tell him. Joffrey he offered three times, instead she gave the man his own name, and she was only willing to unname him if he helped her free the prisoners.

“The man relented and ordered her to help make what later would be dubbed weasel soup. She unnamed him and he gave her an iron coin telling her that it would help her get to people like him when in need, before he changed his face and disappeared. This coin the girl gave to a Bravosi sailor at Saltpans who delivered her to the guild.”

All color had drained from Gendry’s face. “The Lothari.” And then he said, “Had I not refused to help you, he might not have given you the coin.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I would have given him a third name and he would have given me the coin regardless. The point is that the price is not always money. It rarely is, and their aim is ending suffering. Varys’ birds were dying and suffering immensely. I only hastened their death and cut their suffering short.”

“But if I had chosen to remain with you and smith for your brother, …”

“My brother and mother would have been killed, and we would be taken prisoners in the Riverlands, or killed, or my coin could have paid the passage for two. Nothing you did or didn’t do would have made much of a difference at the time.” She reached for his hand. “But you make all the difference now.”

He gripped her hand tight. “Your mother lived, Arya. We found her, dead, but Beric passed his life onto her. She hanged the Freys.” Now it was Arya who felt pale. She wanted to pull her hand back, but Gendry clutched hers tightly. “She tried to hang Brienne too, who chose to serve her and catch Jaime. It changed us all, I guess. On the one hand we wanted vengeance for the Red Wedding. But your mother was wise enough to make me the guardian of orphans at the Crossroads inn. She told me a true warrior guarded the children, and so I did. She preserved some humanity in me. I supposed everyone to be dead, except myself, when I fled North after the Lions and Freys routed the forests. But Lem, Tom and Brienne live. So does Hot Pie. Maybe Lady Stoneheart still lives as well.”

Arya had stopped to fight Gendry’s hold on her. _My mother may be alive?_ But then he said that name. “Why do you call her Lady Stoneheart?”

“She was not who she was in life, Arya. Neither physical nor in her heart. She was death come to live, a walking, croaking disfigured corpse who only longed for vengeance and her daughters, but mostly vengeance, and her trials would have shamed Ser Beric. She could not speak, only whisper, and only Harwin was truly able to translate for her. If she is alive we might venture into her. I want you to be prepared if it comes to that. Will you give her mercy then and end her suffering, as I think your religion would want? Or will you follow her dark path of vengeance?”

Arya opened her mouth, closed it. Her dead mother and Nymeria had served her need for revenge in the Riverlands. But the undead were an abomination to the Many Faced God. Could she kill her own mother? She stared at Gendry, remembering how he once had demanded in Braavos they needed to be truthful, but they both had kept secrets from each other. Unlike the time he told her about Jon, she felt no anger this time. Maybe it was because she felt nothing at the thought of her undead mother. She had believed her mother to be dead for years, had grieved for her, and Gendry told her that her undead mother was not the same woman as when she lived. Besides she had her secrets too, from him. Arya could see now that it required time to trust each other with the darkest and most painful truths. “I have a mission,” she whispered. “A name to kill.”

Gendry licked his lips. “I suspected as much. So, if you kill this name, you will return to Braavos?”

“No, the House will never be my home again. If I do it though I will be an initiate, not an acolyte anymore, and I have to do it as Arya Stark, thereby forcing to have Arya disappear forever. If I don’t do it though, I fear for the consequences of the realm, for all of us.”

Tears brimmed his eyes. “In either case I would have to part with you.” And then he was on his knees, his hands on her shoulders, staring explicitly with his blue eyes into hers. “W-when the time comes, tell me. Maybe…” But he could not speak and pressed his lips hard on hers, while he held her face in between his hands. “Let me save you, Arya. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. You must live as Arya.”

His kisses grew more desperate and harder, bruising almost, and all she could do to relieve them was open her mouth to welcome his tongue. “Love me, Gendry,” she whispered. “Always love me.”

“I do, my sweet, my love.”

“And give me a child.”

She gave in to his passionate kiss, and felt herself being lifted to the bed, her breastplate being undone as well as her dress and dropped beside the bed. She heard his clothes being pulled off and dropped to the floor as well and then felt his naked skin and his mouth on hers, his fingers pressing and rubbing her erect button, his hard cock seeking entrance, and then stretching and entering her, him thrusting into her as he whispered her name over and over as if he wanted her to never forget it.

“You are my wife,” he murmured and he shoved himself inside of her. “Arya Stark of Winterfell.” He shoved into her again.

“Give me a child,” she moaned.

“Oh, gods, I want to,” he gritted between his teeth, as her thighs were wet with their intermingled sweat, and he thrust over and over, again and again, harder, deeper, and the headboard banged against the wall behind it. “I will.”

She felt him tense and he buried his face in her neck. She pressed her hips up to meet him, to rub herself against his cock. He needed no other sign of hers to know what to do. His thumb rubbed her pearl hard, while he shoved rhythmically into her, promising her he’d let her come. His voice was hoarse. His panting short and getting louder. She planted her feet into the bed, clenched her thighs as she raised her hips to meet him again and again, and her fists clutched the sheets.

“Harder. Almost,” she gasped.

He hissed and his thumb worked harder. “I can’t. Oh, gods, lord…”

“Almost,” she repeated.

She held her breadth, and tensed every muscle to get there faster. He already let out the familiar groan and sigh and slowed his thrusts, but his thumb rubbed her stiffly and even harder, and then she leapt for the orgasm that jumped towards her. _Yes_ , she cried. _Yes!_ And she came as waves crashing into her, until she floated, and she felt his weight on her. She prayed then, for once not to the Many Faced God, but the Old Gods, even though she knew they could not hear this far south. _Grant me this life, for once._

Gendry’s hand slid from between them, around her waist and then he rolled them together on their side. “We’ll find a way,” he mumbled, breathlessly. “I’ll find a way.” He kissed her and held her close to him, their sweat clinging to one another. “The gods could not have granted us our love and marriage for nothing.”

She fell asleep in his arms, and dreamt of Nymeria washing her cubs. Five she had – four yipping blind grey balls of fur and one black, crawling over each other in search of a teat. She bumped her nose against them to help them with their search and licked their milky waste. A girl and four boys. Her mate returned with a kill and gave her the prime meat, licked her nuzzle and sniffed his litter. Their pack of little brothers and sisters pissed outside from excitement to mark the den, eager for the day they could meet the newest members of the alpha pair. The dream changed and she felt her insides being ripped apart as she stood and was supported by strangers and let gravity help her. Where was he? Was he there at all? “The seed is strong _”_ , whispered her father. “And your sons will be knights and princes and lords. “ She sagged down with the growing sound of a wail and a pink, wrinkled, blotchy child with black hair was laid in her arms that she laid to her breast. “A Stark of Winterfell,” said a familiar voice to her. Bran? And all she saw were blue eyes smiling at her.

Arya woke in the black of night, and her hand instinctively went to her belly. Gendry lay with his back to her, snoring softly, as usual. She caressed her stomach and wondered whether the dream confirmed whether she would have his child. Had Gendry started it tonight, or last night, or at the forge perhaps. She smiled. There was a noise against the window. She rolled on her side and stepped out of the bed. She winced at the pain that shot into her foot, but she hopped to the window and peered behind the curtain. There sat the old raven pecking his beak against the window. _You’re a strange bird_ , she thought. It flew off into the night. She put her hand against her stomach again, smiling. _I hope you exist already_ , she thought. She limped back to the bed, crawled in and watched her sleeping husband. _And I hope he’ll be there to see you born._ She snuggled close to him, and he had woken up enough to search for her hand and wrap it around his waist, before falling asleep again.

She woke again by the sound of voices, her hands under the pillow as she lay on her stomach. Arya opened her eyes and saw Arthur trail Gendry and help him dress. “Let my lady wife sleep some more, Art,” he whispered. “I will be away again for the day.”

“But you have not broken your fast, Ser,” chided the boy.

“I’ll grab something in the kitchen. Now, behave and help the princess instead, will you.” He patted Arthur on the head and left the apartment, closing the door softly.

She followed the boy’s movements through the lashes of her eyes and he stood to her side of the bed, watching her, but not realizing she was awake. “Go fetch Jhiri,” she whispered.

“Master told me to let you sleep,” he said stubbornly.

She chortled a muffled laughter in her pillow. “I’m already awake, Arthur. Now please get Jhiri and stay in the other room until I call for you. She will dress me.”

She had Arthur carry the book back to the library, where she started to read anew - more books and parchments. Sometimes, she let Arthur read parts to her. There were rhythms in these stories, and imagery. Sometimes it just helped to close her eyes and then she saw clearer. She never realized how much wealth there could be in stories.

“I bid you a good day, princess,” said Tyrion. She opened her eyes. He was the last she expected to see, after the way she had angered him. “And who is this, now?” he asked as he looked at Arthur, and she explained it to him. “Good choice,” said Tyrion. “Lord Baratheon will only sit in his castle. You will learn better from a warrior, and he can even make your own sword and armor.”

“Didn’t Lord Baratheon fight for Queen Daenerys?” asked Arya.

“His sellswords did, yes. He waves a hammer, but I’ve never seen him use it on any foe. Meanwhile Ser Gendry has slain five with his father’s hammer I heard tell.” Tyrion hopped onto a chair and took one of the large books on top of the pile.

“You decided to believe in grumkins after all?”

“Well, I’ve seen dragons fly and being ridden, and yesterday a warg told me about a sailor’s wife. Perhaps the letters from the Wall about an army of Others and wights gathering are true after all.”

“Do you completely trust Varys?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“Was he not the one who whispered paranoia into Aerys’ ears about Rhaegar? Did he not fund Aegon’s conquest –army and ships - together with Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos, while all they gave Queen Daenerys was a Dothraki husband.”

When she dropped Illyrio’s name, Tyrion’s eyebrows shot up. “You know him?”

“Let’s say that when I lived here as a little girl, I found some tunnels and overheard a certain disturbing conversation between the two, and that I also met Illyrio over a year ago in Braavos, involving himself with murder and politics for Volantis.”

“They gave her the dragon eggs. Without eggs, there would not have been dragons.”

“But who could have known they would ever hatch?”

Tyrion puckered his brow. “What are you trying to say?”

“Princess Arianne Martell has hinted at me that Aegon might be up to something, something with dragons. And I also saw Aegon in one of Baelish’ whore houses where he had invited me to confer with him.” She looked expectantly at Tyrion.

“Sounds more like Littlefinger being up to something than Varys. And those two don’t like each other.”

“And yet, Varys told us both that he met with Lord Baelish and my mother about the assassination. So, when it is in their interest they sometimes work together,” Arya said drily. She leaned over. “The conversation I overheard between them as a child was about creating a war situation between Lions and Wolves, involving a murder plot on my father. Both Varys and Lord Baelish wanted war in Westeros, both for their own reasons – as you said, Lord Baelish for himself, but Varys backed Aegon.”

“This is not the place to discuss Varys. His birds will learn of it anyway.”

Arya smiled a little. “No, they won’t. There are mostly dead birds.”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. “What?” Then he squinted at her. “And I assume you had something to do with this,” he drawled.

“Yes,” she said with little concern.

“Wow, you _are_ a cold one!”

“If Aegon, or Varys or Littlefinger intended to steal a dragon for themselves, how would they do it?”

“They can’t steal Drogon. He’s bound to the queen. Rhaegal was Euron’s, after his brother Victarion had a dragon binding horn blown. Victarion smashed the fleet of Qarth and Yunkai. I never believed there ever was a day I was glad to see the kraken banners of the Ironborn. But they were on our side. When the horn sounded though the ugly shrieks of a thousand souls thundered through Mereen and Rheagal descended onto Victarion’s ship. He burned it and flew off to Westeros. The horn was lost with it. Only if Euron is truly dead can Rhaegal be bound or dominated for the fool who tries, if he can locate Rheagal. Viserion had Brown Ben Plumm for a rider, but he got himself killed in a drunken brawl. Viserion is the tamest of the three.”

“How do dragons bind to their riders? Without a horn will only dragon blood serve? Is it like a warg bond?”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “Are you telling me truth about Aegon, or is it you who wants to get a dragon?”

Arya shook her head. “Me? No. I don’t think a mind of fire takes too well to one of ice blood.”

“It is said that only those with dragon blood can master a dragon. Quentyn Martell hoped it was enough. Many of the dragonseeds attempted something similar during the Dance of Dragons. Only six succeeded. One of them was a girl called Nettles and she might not have had any dragon blood at all. She managed to bind Sheepstealer to her by feeding him sheep every day.”

“Have you tried?” Arya asked.

Tyrion’s sour face was answer enough for her. “Viserion ate my sheep but never allowed me near.”

“He will try to for Viserion then. Who knows where his lair is?”

“Varys and myself,” Tyrion said, pouting.

“And where is Varys?”

“Haven’t seen him for the last three days, after the council. Aegon supposedly has been staying in a brothel these past two days. The queen allows him to wander the city.”

“I think you should warn your queen, Tyrion. Trouble is afoot, or should I say of-air?”

Tyrion glowered darkly at her. “I think you might be right.”

“Before you go, I must speak about hostages at Casterly Rock though.”


	30. The Warrior Smith

Gendry admired the finished greatsword in the red gloom of the fires of the forge. The apprentice boys milled around him and stared at it, even Robby. He never had been fully able to get the red ripple out of it that his old master had put in the steel for Tywin Lannister, but now it glinted as black and blue ice with the reddish pink of a sunset or a dawn, reflected back on the ice.

“Let me feel it,” said Tobho Mott, and Gendry carefully folded the old man’s hands around the handle. The frail callused fingers gingerly stroked the blade, even though it drew blood. The master nodded. “You have done well, my boy. It whispers of ice and blood, of justice and battle, of love and oaths.” He gave Ice back to Gendry. “The balance is good as well.”

“Will you fight with it?” asked little, blonde Tommen.

For a moment Gendry himself felt tempted to wield it, imagining himself to slay a Frey in the battles to come. But then he grinned at himself. Jaime had trained him in wielding a longsword or a broadsword in combination with his warhammer in the other hand, not a greatsword. “No, Lady Brienne will fight with it. I have a hammer.”

Just then, the door was opened and Arthur Selmy raced inside. “Ser, ser! Your lady wife wants you at the Keep. The queen is holding court and requires every one of them residing there to appear.”

“Fetch me my things, Art,” he said and he removed the leather apron. And for a moment he felt as if laying it down on the work bench was a goodbye. He remembered the verses of the song of the Seven about the Smith.

 _“The Smith, he labors day and night,_  
_to put the world of men to right._  
_With hammer, plow, and fire bright,_  
_he builds for little children_.”

Arthur came running with his winter tunic, mail shirt and fur cloak. He donned them, and realized he had never been one to build for children. Sure, he could call himself a master now that he had reforged even a Valyrian greatsword. But his skill had never been meant to build, instead it was meant to guard little children.

 _“The Warrior stands before the foe,_  
_protecting us where e'er we go._  
_With sword and shield and spear and bow,_  
_he guards the little children_.”

Even when he banged the hammer at the crossroads inn he had been a warrior, for guarding orphans was what he had done. And he had tried to protect Arya ever since he met her just as well.

“Remember,” said Tobho Mott. “You will always know those inducted into the secrets of working Valyrian steel by the hunting scenes of Qohor.”

Gendry clasped the man’s hands in strong grip. “Yes, I will know now.” And then he embraced the old man. He sheathed Ice into the polished scabbard he made for it, lifted it across his shoulder, so the sword hung across his back, turned and walked out, as the children, including Annie ran after him and shouted their goodbyes. This time, he walked out through the front door, while Arthur brought his horse from the back to the front. He waved at the children as he vaulted onto the horse. He would never see them again. Soon, he would depart for the North, without any intention of ever returning. Even though the winter cold and slippery snow kept many people from venturing out, at peak hour there were still plenty of people. He had to go at the slow pace and even allow Arthur to lead Black by the bridles back to the keep. To his mind it seemed the upside down world that a kid of nine was taking care of him, actually was to guard him, while he was the supposed knight and adult. But he could not begrudge Arthur’s points and experience that would be counted one day in the boy’s future in order to become a knight. At least he had made Arthur a cuirasse and sallet for his size for the march to come.

He took two steps at once with his long legs on the stairs to the Maidenvault and as he opened the door, Arya jumped from her chair and exclaimed, “There you are! Make haste.” She wore a white starched dress, threaded with silver, of that thick fabric that crunched so nicely in his hands. The bodice packed her breasts so tightly and was so low he knew her nipples were barely hidden underneath it.

She was already trying to pass him, her skirts rustling, but he stopped her in her tracks with his body and gently rested his hands on her hips. “First, a kiss.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and the smell of sweet roses together with her particular female aroma flared his nostrils. His arms slipped around her waist, so his hands cupped her butt cheeks. “A proper kiss,” he grumbled. She paused for a moment, looked into his eyes, smiled and then stretched her toes to kiss his lips. He squeezed her butt cheeks, grabbed a fistful of her dress, and pressed her against his loins, as their lips and tongues met.

It was always the kiss that sent the blood rush to his cock. Before long his mind flashed with imagery. He could walk them to the table, lift her skirts… or push her against the wall, with her back to him and … or lift her in his arms and carry her to bed and… He could make the dragon queen wait, and he knew Arya would like such a scheme just as much. And then they’d enter the throne room last, flushed with energy and smelling of sex. All he needed to do was raise one hand from her round ass to her breast, and kiss her neck instead of her mouth. Just one satisfied moan from her, a pressed rub against his cock, her hand going to his laces…

Gendry broke the kiss, and smirked. “Better not make the dragon queen wait for us.”

Arya’s stormy eyes were dark with lust, and her fingers played with the neckline of his tunic under his mail shirt. She pressed her hips into his cock – a promise. “Better not.”

He stepped away from her and lifted the greatsword from his back over his shoulder. “It’s finished.”

She eyed the scabbard eagerly, but did not touch it. He had made a wooden scabbard with welded metal on it with flower motif and hunting wolves. “Unsheathe it,” she said, her voice an excited whisper.

Gendry dragged Ice out of its scabbard, and the sound of the metal grazing the inside of the scabbard sounded like a gust of winter wind. Here in their room there was much better light than in the forge, and the blade reflected the light dropping in on it brightly.

Arya opened her mouth in awed disbelief, but then said, “It’s different.”

He nodded and chuckled. “Yes. Your father’s sword is gone. That couldn’t be undone. But I’ve tried my best to make a new Ice of it.” She reached with her hand for the blade. “Careful,” he said, “It’s very sharp, sharper than Widow’s Wail was even.”

“It’s beautiful,” she finally said. “It looks like there’s been blood spilled on ice with the reddish hue.”

Arthur peered from around the side door. He already had fast learned to make himself scarce as soon as may be when Arya and Gendry kissed like that. And the one time, Arthur had been much too quick in the morning to dress his master and walked in on their lazy morning lovemaking, had also taught Art not to enter unless called for. The coast was clear for Arthur. It was his first real look at Ice. “Surely, this will be a sword of legends.” And then his eyes glowed with pride. “I’ll bet it’s better than Dawn!”

Edric too had acquired two squires, and some competition existed between Lord Dayne’s squires and Arthur Selmy, where Edric’s squires would boast about Dawn and their master being the Sword of the Morning while Gendry was only the Scaffold King and actually a smith rather than a knight. But Arthur would argue that Gendry had a king’s warhammer, that he was a warrior who could actually make armor for his squires instead of buying it, that he was married to the Princess and Captain over Lord Dayne. Once, Edric and him had to pull the boys apart in the training yard when their training soon turned into an ugly beating-each-other-up.

“I won’t be wielding it, Art,” Gendry said with a smile, not surprised at the boy’s disappointment on his face. “I can’t fight with my hammer and a greatsword at the same time. A good warrior knows his skills and his limitations.”

“Lord Dayne didn’t fight with a greatsword either until he picked it up in Starfall,” the boy reasoned.

“And he has had way more training that I ever had, except with a hammer. I’ve used a hammer all my life.”

“And a hammer killed Rhaegar!” declared Art, making both Arya and Gendry laugh.

They left for the great hall afterwards, discussing what the dragon queen wanted. Arya suspected it had to do with Aegon. His absence of court became widely known when Arianne went into labor to deliver his child – unfortunately a stillborn girl. He had reappeared last night, under heavily guard. Varys was still unaccounted for. The whole court was filled with gossip of this being evidence of Queen Daenerys’ unstable rule. Aegon was still popular with many folk in the realm and many believed he truly was Rheagar’s son. The dragon queen was more feared than popular in the way she had won the Iron Throne – with reaping Ironborn, pillaging Dothraki and firebreathing dragons. In the city many people compared her to Rhaenyra, a new King Maegor with teats. Meanwhile others argued the Targaryens always fought between themselves with their dragons wreaking havoc and the last actual peace they had known had been under King Robert; that there was one popular eldest son of his blood who had married a Stark princess on a scaffold – now that would be a king of the people. But it left no doubt that Queen Daenerys intended to quell any spark for a new rebellion brewing at court, in the city and far outside of it.

They arrived on time in the hall, together with many others of the court, and chose to stand with the Wolf Pack to the left of the throne. People automatically made way for her and him. Initially most of the courtiers whispered behind his back – an upstart lowborn smith who had caught a noblewoman’s fancy and folly to marry him. But the look of him taking long, big strides, yet rarely hurrying, dressed all in black, his hair bound in a bun and the vision of a young no-nonsense Robert, being greeted by Queen Daenerys in the godswood, sometimes halting to converse with her, or sparring in the yard together with handsome Lord Dayne as equals, or fierce battle hard men like Hugo Wull saluting him became a familiar sight. Not that the whispers had died out. They had altered. This Baratheon did not take to drinking as much. He certainly was not whoring and he might have the support of the North behind him in what obviously seemed to be a happy marriage. If two dragons fought for a bone, the wolfish stag might run off with it. The game of thrones might not have been ended just yet in the court’s eyes, nor of the citizens of King’s Landing. And after having seen five different rulers on the throne the past five years, as well as several claimants outside the capital, none of them were ready to discount the possibility, even though the man himself showed no interest in it at all.

When Gendry first learned about such rumors two days before, while the news spread of Aegon having gone missing, he thought it was the most absurd notion. He could not read, nor write. He was an average swordsman and so far he had only led twenty men, at the most one hundred and ten. And he was sure that if he ever could be maneuvered into claiming a throne, which was never, he would probably not survive it for a day. Arya sometimes japed about him having some political talent, but he knew he had no talent for backstabbing, and no patience for it either. Besides, Gendry knew of another theorethical claimant, a wolf dragon, his own Lord Commander, even if only Rowland, Jaime, Arya and he were aware of it. He was sure that if any schemer ever got it in his head to declare him king and put a crown on his head, they’d have to drag him bound, tied and gagged in order to make him sit on that treacherous Iron Throne, for he would kick and beat them up otherwise. When Queen Daenerys finally entered the hall and took her seat on the Iron Throne, he fervently hoped the dragon queen knew him well enough to spurn any such rumor if she had heard of it already.

"Queen Daenerys Targaryen Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess of Dragonstone, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains and Slayer of Lies," Grey Worm shouted. She wore an unblemished, stark white dress with long sleeves. The deep cut in the front showed her cleavage and the white contrasted highly against the sandy colored tan she had gained during her years in Slaver's Bay and the Dothraki Sea.

“At least she dropped her foreign titles,” japed Asher behind him.

Daenerys purple eyes roved across the heads of the courtiers gathered there, and for a moment halted when she met his. Like the first time he ever saw her, her features were like hard, set marble. _She has heard the rumors about me_ , he thought. “Lord Aegon Blackfyre,” she said.

Together with two Unsullied at his side, Aegon was brought forward. The short-time king met Daenerys fiery gaze with a similar stare. Though Aegon was the eldest, a year older than Gendry, the younger dragon queen appeared far older, because of that same ancient look Arya could have at times. Aegon looked every bit a Targaryen as Daenerys – silver of hair, sleek and lithe, but much taller, and lilac eyes. He was richly dressed in red on black, the colors of the Targaryens. _He’s the real Aegon_ , Gendry thought for a moment. And yet, he had no idea what a Blackfyre would look like, or whether he was the image of Rhaegar. Not many lived anymore to compare the two.

“You bent the knee to me,” said Daenerys, “and I have welcomed you into my home and even offered you to join me in my reign through the offer of marriage.”

“I have a wife already,” said Aegon, “Your Grace.”

“And yet, you spent your days in brothels with whores and let her labor by herself, and since your reappearance yesterday, you have not yet once visited her in her recovery bed, especially since she is in need of consolation of the child she bore you that will never live. For someone to claim to have a wife already, you have shown little or no concern for her.”

Aegon flushed angrily red, but his eyes glistened wet. The man quickly and roughly wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Is this proof enough that I care,” he growled. “You claim that I’m an imposter, Your Grace, but I am your brother’s son, Aegon Targaryen and was already trying to rebuild Westeros together with my wife and queen and make it peaceful, before you came to destroy it once again. You, Your Grace, have selfishly usurped the throne over your brother’s son with Ironborn, Dothraki and dragons. I never needed any of those. People flocked to my banners, for they know who I am, better than you know your family.”

Queen Daenerys though had not been impressed by his words. She smiled a little even. “And yet, you attempted to become Viserion’s dragonrider three days ago, and now he’s roaming the Crownlands. So, don’t talk to me about being righteous. Admit that had you succeeded you would have returned to start a civil war again and lay King’s Landing to waste to finish what Queen Cersei had attempted to do with her wildfire.”

The court gasped at this revelation, but Aegon violently shook his head. “No, only to prove to you, the realm and my wife that I am a dragon just as well.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him. “You want to prove you are my nephew? Well, I’ll give you the chance to prove it, tomorrow.”

“How?” The hope in Aegon’s voice was almost physically tangible.

“Be my champion in the trial of combat against the Kingslayer, who killed my father by cutting his throat.”

Aegon blinked several times, and Arya whispered to Gendry, “Very smart move of her. Either he dies or he wins fighting for her, and she prevents Daario or Jorah killing each other over who should be her champion.”

Aegon bowed his head and then went down on his knee. “It will be my honor to avenge my grandfather, Your Grace.”

“But will Jaime stand a chance against him?” asked Gendry. “I’ve heard Aegon is a very skilled swordsman. He has led many battles himself and won them.”

Arya glanced at him for a moment. “Jorah would have been Jaime’s best shot at winning. Jaime used to be better than him. Now they would have been equals, in age as well.”

Queen Daenerys nodded. “Then I name you, Lord Aegon, my champion. And because you returned of your own accord to surrender yourself to my men, after your failed attempt to master Viserion, every other arrangement will remain as it were.”

Aegon rose and with his head still bowed he softly said, “I would like to visit my wife now.”

“You are free to go in the Red Keep wherever you please, but only the Red Keep.”

Once Aegon had left the Great Hall, Queen Daenerys rose from her throne and the courtly theater was over and done with. They turned and Brienne stood frozen. “I must tell him,” she said.

Gendry nodded. Nobody needed to ask who she meant by _him_. “And come afterwards for Ice.”

She leveled her dazzling, sapphire eyes with him, obviously surprised. “You’re giving it to me even if Jaime won’t allow me to champion for him?”

“Lending it, more like,” he grumbled. “It is yours to wield until the North.”

Once they arrived back at the apartment, Qyburn knocked on the door. Arya had not been using the crutch in days anymore and was able to walk on both her feet. But Qyburn still wanted to inspect her ankle. Something about the maester in his white robe made Gendry uneasy. Initially he had supposed it had to do with the rumors of his weird experiments. It was even said that he had _created_ Robert Strong, the massive knight always hidden behind his helmet’s visor who had been Queen Cersei’s champion and had disappeared from King’s Landing after Queen Cersei fled for Casterly Rock. But the more Qyburn had visited their apartment the past week, the more Gendry knew it had to do with how Qyburn interacted with Arya. Objectively, Gendry could not say that Maester Qyburn acted or spoke in any way overly familiar to Arya, but his gut told him there was more than met the eye.

“The Princess’ foot is well on the mending,” said Qyburn in a gentle, soft spoken voice that gave Gendry the chills, but made Arya grin with delight. He lingered near and watched the maester like a hawk. “The kind Princess can ride and run and jump and use her foot as normal soon. But until then must keep the angle of her foot and leg perpendicular.”

“How long is soon?” asked Arya. “Can we leave by next week?”

“Qyburn has said.” And the man inclined his head slowly. _Why the bloody seven hells does that man talk so funny?_ And the form of speech itched Gendry in the back of his neck as if he knew someone else speaking like that, somewhere, sometime. He just did not know who. Then Qyburn reached inside the sleeve of his white garb. Gendry tensed, and gripped for the hilt of his broadsword, instinctively fearing a dagger may come out. But that was folly. “Qyburn has letters from the Wall, two from the Vale – your sister and Lord Baelish – one from Pinkmaiden, Acorn Hall, Raventree Hall and Seagard.”

Arya smiled with anticipation and greedily took the parchments of messages. “Thank you, maester.”

Qyburn bowed his head slightly, let his eyes glance along to him and then he was off. Gendry scratched his chin. “I don’t like that man.” Arya waved his comment off with one hand, while she quickly perused every message.

He waited expectantly for her to tell of its contents, and for once he regretted not being able to read himself. It had never mattered much in his life before, and even when Arya had read aloud from some of the books she had unearthed from the Keep’s library the past days, he found it more pleasant to listen to her voice than being required to read it himself. Finally she laid the messages down on the table, before her.

“Well?”

“Jon is awake again, for sure. He replied himself. I recognize his handwriting.” She pushed the message towards him and all he saw were scribbles and curls and lines. It all looked the same to him.

“Will he chop my head off?” Gendry asked.

Arya giggled. “He congratulates me, but expresses worry over the match and demands your return to the Wall.”

Gendry sighed. “He’s going to chop my head off.”

She reached for his hand with her own and pinched his palm. “No, he mentions you confessed all to him when he was in his long-sleep and that he is sure you love me. He worries I might not love you back as much and might not like it to be a man’s possession. But if you bring an army of ten thousand to the Wall and get me safely to Winterfell, he will release you from your vows in exchange for it. He knows you were tricked into them, believing me to be dead.”

“Why would he think you would not love me in return?” Gendry asked puzzled.

Arya blushed and let go of his hand. “I’m not sure, but it may have to do with me claiming I never wanted to marry.”

Gendry squinted his eyes at her. He was sure Arya was not telling him all and that her answer was not entirely truthful. There was a bond between Arya and Jon he barely comprehended. But if she was reluctant to speak of it, he was unwilling to press her about it. “What news from the Vale then?”

“Lord Baelish tells us that he convinced my sister to let the Knights of the Vale move for Harrenhall, under the ruse that they will help hunt down any remaining outlaws and rebels in the Riverlands, because the Lannister armies are retreating.”

“It might be a trap. Harrenhall will be the first stronghold we’ll arrive at from King’s Landing.”

“Yes, but the Knights of the Vale must clear the mountain passes first.”

“What does your sister write?”

“It is a peculiar message. I shall read it aloud to you. _Dear sister Horseface,_ she begins. _Your writing is still as awful as ever._ This is her way of telling me she believes my claim, that I am her true sister. _I hope your husband can say more than just the one word._ I mentioned in my letter to her that Hodor might have been a good match for me as well. It was a marriage she wished upon me during an argument in our father’s solar in the Hand’s Tower.”

“Who is this Hodor?” he asked with a frown, not liking the idea of Arya and another.

Arya smiled. “He was a simple minded tall, but gentle stableboy; a great-grandson of Old Nan who could only speak the word Hodor. His real name was Walder, but everyone called him Hodor for the one word he could speak, even though nobody knows what it means.”

“And you compared me to him?” he said annoyed, folding his arms in front him.

“It was an inside joke, so she would know it was me who wrote her, not some pretender. Anyway, she also writes, _though I must pity any man who has a wife who more likely makes him wear dresses and stitch for her._ ”

Gendry chuckled. “Your sister has humor.”

Arya stuck her tongue out at him. “ _Beware of the Giant of Braavos. He plans to trap a fake she wolf in his bat cave with wings and take the twins himself.”_

“What’s that all about?”

“The Titan of Braavos is Baelish’ sigil.”

“I thought the mockingbird was his sigil?”

“His personal one, yes. But his family’s is the Titan. She’s telling us he is setting a trap for me at Harrenhall with Knights of the Vale. The bat used to be the sigil of the many lords who were master of Harrenhall, and the Knights of the Vale are also called Winged Knights.”

Gendry made a fist and hit the table with it. “I knew it.”

“Well at least, Sansa is not his creature. She knows he means ill. She continues with, _But with the help of a good-sister the Dog’s songbird will teach him to fly._ I don’t know who the dog’s songbird is.” Arya frowned. “Maybe she means the Hound? He ranted about taking a song from her as he lay dying. Yes, that might be it. With the Dog’s songbird she means herself. Do you have a sister in the Vale?”

Gendry shrugged his shoulder. “How would I know? Apparently I have brothers and sisters all over the realm.”

“Maybe it’s her late husband’s sister. I think she’s trying to tell me she will attempt to do something about Lord Baelish.”

“Well, we can’t risk you walking into a trap. Tyrion and Lem had this plan of separating the forces into three right? The largest contingent coming from King’s Road onto Harrenhall, another sailing to Saltpans and a third entering via the Westerlands via Pinkmaiden with Edmure and the other hostages. There was a letter from Pinkmaiden and Acorn Hall, right? What does that one say?”

Arya picked up the fourth parchment and spread it out. “It’s from Lord Clement Piper. He swears allegiance to my uncle and my brother and awaits the food as well as the troops and hostages. He writes, _The time for wolves has come._ Lord Theomar Smallwood of Acorn Hall writes only that one sentence as well - _the time for wolves has come._ Same message from Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Jason Mallister.”

“Then the west of the Riverlands between Harrenhall and the Twins is ours.” Gendry stared at her sternly. He wanted no opposition on this. “You’re going with the troops to Pinkmaiden. I’ll go to Harrenhall.”

“No!”

“I’m not having you killed by Lord Baelish, my lady wife. You’re the important one, not me.”

“You’re important to me. I want you with me,” she pleaded.

“There need to be spy reports for Lord Baelish that suggest you are going to Harrenhall. I’m your husband. He knows it. If I’m seen, he’ll think you’re there as well. And this gives me the idea that I should find someone of your built amongst the company to ride with me.”

“What if he takes you as a hostage?”

“Well, let’s hope your sister manages to do to him whatever she plans to do, before that can happen. But he won’t be able to do anything against our force. You know how Harrenhall is indefensible. So, that only leaves Riverrun and Darry insecure.”

“I left it to Tyrion to contact his aunt Genna Lannister about trading the title of Lady of Riverrun for Lady of the Twins and to award Darry to Jeyne Darry. Jeyne’s first son Ty Frey was the first in line to inherit Riverrun and she was upset her second son Willem could not inherit Darry. With this she can be secure that the Twins are Ty’s to inherit from Emmon Frey and her second son gets Darry.” Arya looked at him. “This means we only have a few days left between us. Aside from the several days in the Tower of Sorrow and you being imprisoned in the black cells for a week, we haven’t been apart.”

The thought made his stomach shrink. “I know,” he whispered. For a moment he wanted to change his mind and tell her he would travel the long route to Pinkmaiden with her. The nights would be lonely and cold without her and he barely could stand the thought. But he knew he had the right of it. He rose from his seat and took her hand. She rose with him and stood close, looking up with her grey eyes into his. He noticed she had grown somewhat taller over the past year. She still did not reach his shoulders, but he was sure she would. “I have nowhere to go these coming days,” he mumbled huskily. “We can spend all the rest of the coming days and nights in bed if you wish it, m’lady.”

A sly smile appeared on her lips, and he could only think it made them all the more tempting to kiss. “I wouldn’t mind that, husband.”

He bowed his head and kissed her sweet, soft lips, taking her in a loving embrace, and crunching the starched skirts in his gathering fingers.


	31. The Kingslayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while to write, because it required research for the duel tactics. BTW this is a Jaime POV. The only true way to show Jaime's motivations for his actions so far within this story, to surrender to Daenerys and fight his trial of combat the way he does was through his POV. Arya and Gendry know too little about it to expose it in a deeper way.

“Kingslayer! Time for your combat!” Chendric shouted as he turned his jailor keys in the lock and swung the door open. Jaime walked out the door and made a mock move towards the man, who jumped fearfully out of his way. Warily the man raised his club at him. “Behave now, Kingslayer, while I put shackles on you.” Jaime rolled his eyes, but held out his hands anyway. When Chendric was done, he yanked his chains. “Now move!”

Jaime yanked right back and made Chendric stumble. “I volunteered for this,” he snarled. “No need to treat me like a dog over it.” He already started to step in the direction of the way out to the yard. He knew the castle like the cats prowling it, even some of the lower cavernous tunnels that led one straight into the bay. “I guess it will be the Keep’s gate and the road to the Gate of the Gods and then the Tourney Grounds?”

Chendric stood and wiped at his bandy legs and growled, “Aye.”

“I know my way,” Jaime quipped and he took his long strides forcing his jailor to race after him.

When he walked out into the yard on his worn boots, the cold winds of winter whipped at his shirt and blonde hair. He was glad at least for the prison beard to maintain an illusion of relative warmth. Though his hair did not, his beard started to show the first evidence of grey. Still, he closed his eyes and soaked in the smells of the sea breeze coming in from Blackwater Bay. The city smelled the worst in summer heat, but freshest in winter cold. The sky itself was a clear blue and the sun was out, though it gave no warmth. And yet, he turned his face in the sun’s direction and smiled at it. It just might be the last day of his life, and it seemed a beautiful day to die on.

Chendric hit him with his stick and shoved him onwards. Jaime opened his eyes and noticed the caged cartwheel that would drag him through the city as some beast for show, like a bear caught and then pranced about to give people the illusion they could conquer evil. _A bear and his maiden fair_ , he thought sarcastically. For a moment he wondered why he had not thought of a caged lion instead. Was that not what he had been all of his life? _A lion?_ He ignored the dragon guards with their lances when he passed them. The olive skinned unsullied looked rather unhappy in this weather they had never known in their homelands. Not even their fully padded jerkins with sleeves seemed to keep them warm. Jaime assumed their shaved pates did not help either. Jaime crunched the snow beneath his boots and stepped onto the cart. Chendric locked the door behind him, got onto the front and whipped the horses. The cart wheels fought against the strain with loud squeaky noises and then Jaime jerked back as the cart began to move.

Out of the gate they rolled, over the bridge and into the city. Despite the cold, it seemed all of the city had ventured outside to watch the Kingslayer in his cage pass by. Jaime had never seen that many people gathered before. Had it been like this when his sister was forced on her Walk of Shame? Initially the throng of people simply watched him in silence, though he could see the hatred in their eyes. For them his sister and by extension himself were to blame for the hunger, the losses, their poverty, the cold, for winter itself. They had prospered under King Robert, until the false son had sat his sadistic ass on the Iron Throne. After that there had been nothing but hunger and war and the coldest and longest winter ever. And even before that, despite his madness, they had known peace under King Aerys. And he had started it all by slaying the Mad King. Without him and his father, Aegon might have been king and there would not have been any Dance of Dragons either. _You’d all have been dead if I had not killed the Mad King._ Then Jaime thought, _what if I had actually claimed the throne?_ Would it have been any better? His sister would never have needed to suffer her marriage with Robert, and could have been his queen instead. Perhaps she would have remained happy and never have turned into the warped stranger she became. He had loved her; did believe she was his likeness in body and soul. Or was he wrong? Had her madness and corruption always been present, only better masked? Would his eldest son have been a more decent human being? _Perhaps not_ , he thought.

And then the first man shouted, “Kingslayer!” and threw a bowl of brown at his cage. It landed on his boots. “Sister fucker!” shouted another and threw dung at him. After that it rained dung, rotten food, piss and brown on him accompanied with all the accusations of the deeds he had grown famous for. But Jaime had never cared what people thought of him, and he did not care about it now either. He smiled and faced every one of them with his emerald eyes. _This is between me and the gods._ It only angered them more. He had heard and seen how the mob had broken his sister’s mind. She had never cared for the people, but she had very much cared about how they perceived her. It seemed to him now that he was his sister’s opposite. With every hurl, every curse he thought, _that’s right, get it out of your system_. _None of you ever asked for this, and none of you ever really had any power to do something about it. You still don’t._

At the central square, where the Street of Sisters began as well as the street that led to Baelor’s Sept, more people were gathered. But they continued their way to Cobbler’s Square and finally under the Gate of the Gods with its carvings on the gatehouse and over the portcullis with eyes that seemed to follow him. Instead of taking the Kingsroad, the cart veered south east, to the left to the Tourney Grounds. This was too great an opportunity for the new queen to pander to the people of King’s Landing – someone to sacrifice for all they had endured – and she would want as many people able to witness it as possible. So, it was no surprise that behind the cartwheel the throng poured out of the city, just as they had followed the cart the moment it had left the bridge to the Red Keep. Without a road, the terrain was more difficult for the cart to drag. While snow lay thick on the ground, the terrain itself was not yet frozen and hard. The snow became a mush, and the wheels got stuck and instead of guarding him, the dragon guards were now forced to push the cart whenever the wheels got stuck in the mud. Even the people wanting to see him dead threw in their weight to get the cart to the fighting arena that had been set up.

By the time he arrived at the fighting field, he finally saw the first of familiar faces awaiting him at a tent. Brienne stood in the front, her jaw clenched and her sapphire eyes sad. _My love, my good love,_ he thought. She had tried every argument, tears and anger, to cajole him into letting her be his champion. But how could he explain the dream he once had, after he lost his hand and had been freed by Roose Bolton to return to King’s Landing. He had never told her about the dream that prompted him to return for her to Harrenhall and save her from the bear pit; where he wondered into the darkness of the caves that spelled doom beneath Casterly Rock and was met by his father, sister and his monstrous son. His sister had told him that he would die along with the flame of his sword, but then Brienne joined him with her own sword of light-blue fire asking whether there were bears, lions or wolves down there. No lions, no bears he had answered. Only much later, when confronted by the wraith of the wolf mother, did he realize that doom would come for him by the wolves. He thought he would certainly die now; that in the hollow hill his life light would cease forever.

“Kingslayer, where are my daughters?” the Northerner had translated for the dead mother who was not truly dead, while she covered the ugly gash over her cut throat and only rasping came out, and he had nearly closed his eyes in disgust.

“Sansa fled King’s Landing after she aided my brother in poisoning King Joffrey. I gave Brienne a sword to search for her.”

“Liar!” the outlaws hissed. They were a sorry looking rabble in his eyes. Men and even women with hatred filled eyes, hollow cheeks, worn garbs, but armed with knives, bows, swords and pikes that looked better than they themselves. And when he noticed the helmet of the Hound, for a moment he thought, _the traitorous bitch didn’t lie after all_. But then he realized, _no, the Hound is dead. I know he is._ The robust face with the broken nose and the pale yellow cloak seemed strangely familiar to him, as if he had known the man in another lifetime.

“Arya is alive, that I know,” he lied. “I saw her and I sent her to Winterfell. She’s wed to the legitimized son of Roose Bolton and Lady of Winterfell.”

The men and women in that hollow darkness of the hill with only torches and hearth fires for light were silent and gaped at him. Some of them looked uncomfortable at the mangled living corpse of the mother.

“Is this true?” the Northerner had stepped forward eagerly.

And before Jaime could answer himself, a meager priest in faded red garb and shaggy beard stepped forward. “It’s true, Harwin. I’ve seen it in the flames.”

“Thoros?” Jaime asked. He remembered the man as opulent. What remained was but a red specter of Robert’s friend who loved to eat, drink and fight with his silly sword of flame. He was sure then these were Ser Beric’s outlaws. But where was Beric?

“Aye, Ser Jaime,” said the red priest. He was drunk, but his eyes twinkled with a gleam at him and he shook his head barely noticeable at Jaime, signaling him to be silent.

But Catelyn Tully who was not Catelyn anymore, could not be Catelyn anymore, still stared at him with murder in her eyes. She rasped her whispered words again. Cold, hateful and deadly they sounded. Harwin was shaken out of his personal amazement, and his face fell once more. “Roose Bolton stabbed his sword into my son’s heart with your regards. And now you married my daughter to his bastard as well. Traitor.”

Cold sweat had covered his forehead then and he blanched. “M-my regards?”

“Jaime Lannister sends his regards.”

He had understood her words himself this time. “I-I didn’t know about it. I was his prisoner in Harrenhall and then he released me for my father’s gold. When we parted I only said to give Robb my regards. But I was not in the know of the red wedding. How could I? I was still trying to keep from being caught by Robb’s men and get back to King’s Landing to make my sister surrender Sansa.”

“Liar! Traitor!” she hissed. “You ordered the murder of my son. You hang for your crimes.”

“Yes, hang him!” some cried then.

“If you want me dead, at least have the guts to kill me by the sword,” said Jaime. And he turned towards Brienne who had hung to the back. He pointed his golden hand to her. “And I want her to do it, since she was so keen on betraying me to you.” She cringed and shook her head.

When he ran after her when she told him about Sansa being caught by the Hound and asked her questions, his gut told him something was not right. But he had been so far from believing she was a traitor that he had put his uneasiness aside. Seven hells, when they jumped him, he had even called out to her to save herself, that it was a trap. A low, soldier like voice had even said, “Yes, Kingslayer, and she led you to it.” The hurt had cut him deep and soon turned into anger. After all the bloody things he had done for her. _You fucking, bloody fool._

But when he demanded that Brienne would execute him by the sword, Thoros had stepped in. “We do not hang him. His blood will be of great magical potency. We should execute him by the sword. But not tonight. The red messenger of R’hllor has returned, but it will take another several days before it is most visible.”

“And let him eat our food and drink our wine and ale, in the meantime?” growled the man with the yellow cloak. He had been the one who had revealed to him it had been Brienne who had led him to the trap.

“Fuck that! Let’s just hang him and have it over with,” said another with an eye patch.

“If R’hllor wants a sacrifice, why not burn him? Like King Stannis and his red priestess do?” asked a younger freckled and red haired bowman.

“I saw it in the flames,” said Thoros. “This is holy ground and it wants his blood.”

Catelyn had stared at him all this time. “The old way,” she decided and nodded, before she turned away and left.

Only several days later did Thoros come to him with a wineskin, while most outlaws were out. “I lied,” he had said. “They will come to your rescue and hang those of us they can find. We started out as kings men fighting to protect the common people. But now all they do is hang people for her. It does not matter whether they are innocent or guilty. They all are guilty in her eyes.”

“Where’s Beric?” Jaime had asked.

“He died and passed his life on to her. But that’s not important anymore. You are important, and Brienne. That’s what I saw in the flames. There’s a boy with us, a young knight. Brienne will know who I mean. If you find him, he will lead you to the Wolf girl you failed to protect, and through her Rhaegar’s son. But first you need to get his father’s warhammer and restore the sword that belongs to the wolves.”

“Brienne can go to hell,” he had growled.

“She did it for the little boy’s life. You know that warriors should guard the children.” When Thoros mentioned it, Jaime had remembered the dream again, where the dead Kingsguard and Rhaegar had reminded him how he had failed to protect the children. Doom would come from the wolves, because he failed the children. “Don’t fail them this time, and you might become a warrior yet.”

The next day, Brienne was to behead him. He was brought outside, in the woods, at a clearing with a weirwood. Though it had no face, this was to be his place of sacrifice. Many were gathered with Thoros awaiting the coming of Lady Stoneheart, as they called Catelyn Tully. Some he recognized, such as Harwin, the red headed bowman, the old man with the patch and a Tyroshi with a green beard. But the yellow cloak was missing. Before Lady Stoneheart arrived though, Jaime’s men and Freys attacked. Instead of Brienne slicing his head off with Oathkeeper, he was saved. Thoros, Brienne, the young knight Thoros had mentioned, and Podrick could all go to hell at that point. He jumped on _Honor_ and rode off with his men. But as he did, he noticed the bleeding star up in the sky. Thoros had been right. It had returned. When Ser Kennos informed him that Aegon Targaryen had reclaimed Storm’s End, for some odd reason he remembered the red messenger had appeared in the sky when Aegon had been born. He pulled his reins strongly. “We must turn back. I want the Maid of Tarth as my prisoner, alive.”

He returned too late for the boy Podrick, but just in time for Brienne. Black Walder’s men had pulled the bandage of, and he had seen the gaping wound in her cheek. _A bite? It’s as if wolf tore half her face off!_ “I want her,” he had ordered. “And that sword you took from her.” He grabbed Oathkeeper out of Black Walder’s hands. “She was sworn to me and betrayed me. And for that she will pay by my own hands.”

The moment she was on a horse, her hands bound, he said with a hard face, “Who’s the young knight with the outlaws? Thoros mentioned a young knight.”

“Gendry, his name is Gendry,” she said, more as if she was trying to remind herself his name rather than tell him. “He looks like Renly, but of heavier built. He must be Robert’s bastard son. He watches the orphans brought in by the sparrows at the Crossroads Inn and alerts the brotherhood when unwanted or sought after guests arrive. He’s the one that caught me.”

 _A fucking bastard son of Robert_ , he thought. _Why the bloody hell would I want to waste my time looking for him?_ “Get her to Casterly Rock, along the River Road,” he ordered his men. “See that her wounds are tended by Maester Creylen. Bandage it, keep it clean.” He could barely look at her, without his eyes staring at the horror of her cheek. The mark of the rope around her neck, both old and new - _she was hanged before? –_ looked angrily red and bruised brown, but they were not nearly half as worrisome as her cheek that oozed puss and fluids. “Put her in a cell for highborn hostages, like the others. I will decide what to do with her when I return from King’s Landing. Peck, with me.”

He had been away for too long from King’s Landing he had realized once he had learned of Cersei’s Walk of Shame, her trial, the murder of his uncle Kevan as well as Maester Pycelle. He found her looking pious, but cold and hateful. “And so my little brother has returned, finally,” Cersei had said sarcastically. Her hair was short and she wore a lady’s cap to hide it. Her dress was dark grey and of the simplest cut, without any embellishment, buttoned all to the neck. Before he could say anything, she said, “You came too late. I have a new champion now who wears my favor – Ser Robert Strong. And he’s the new Lord Commander.”

“Cersei,” he began.

“Go crawl under Casterly Rock, you traitor,” she hissed. “You’re nothing to me. I don’t want you around anymore, certainly not anywhere near _my_ children. You never hated it more than to be Lord of Casterly Rock. Well, that’s what I order you to do.”

He had tried to visit Tommen then, but Cersei had installed guards in front of his door. “The Queen Regent has strictly forbidden you to see King Tommen.” He had wanted to say goodbye, but at least he felt secure that Cersei loved her children and would never harm them.

Out of spite, more than having the intent to follow up on Thoros’ advice, he nicked Robert’s warhammer from the armory as well as Widow’s Wail. After that, he went to Casterly Rock to be the lord he had never wanted to be. Little did he speak with Brienne at first, but he wanted his order for her to dress in woman’s clothing and dine with him and his other hostages to be followed by her. Casterly Rock had never been such a crowded place. His father had never been the one to take male hostages. Tywin preferred killing the fathers, the sons, the uncles, the nephews until no male heir survived. Casterly Rock had seemed to have become a court all on its own. Initially, he wanted her in dresses, because he knew she would hate it. But as her cheek finally started to heal, he wanted to know what had happened to her, why she had betrayed him, how she came to be part of the outlaws. After hearing an abbreviated version of her capture by the Brotherhood and of her long search for Sansa without result, he hardly thought of her as a traitor anymore in the course of a few months.

When the news came that Aegon was marching for King’s Landing, for a moment Jaime had been torn between coming to King Tommen’s aid. But Cersei never called for his help, and he never went. Instead he spent his evenings and days in Brienne’s companionship. One fateful night he had come to her room to escort her to the Golden Gallery, and found her watching the sunset. He joined her beside the vaulted window. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord,” she had whispered in a voice thick with emotion. “It reminds me of home, though there it was the sunrise I used to watch.” News had reached Casterly Rock that Tarth had fallen in Jon Connington’s hands.

Jaime had smiled a little at that and laid his hand on hers in sympathy. She had turned, facing him, and her eyes were wide in surprise. For a slight moment he wanted to jape to laugh away his friendly gesture. But then he was drawn into the innocence of her wide, sapphire eyes and her full lips. _Her eyes are so soft, so beautiful, and her lips…_ Instead of retracting his hand, he gently turned her big, course hand in his so their fingers intertwined. There was no need to bend down, for she was as tall as him. His initial kiss had been feather light, barely a brush even. And when he looked at her, she had her eyes closed, her lips parted a little as she drew in a sharp breath of air. He smiled and kissed her again - closing his eyes - like soft, warm velvet. The kiss had been reverent and so obviously inexperienced. _She has never even been kissed before_ , he thought, _a truest maiden._ And that’s when he lost his heart to her. Never so gentle had he kissed Cersei, never with so much care, never so pious even. When he stopped, he watched her smiling. She had opened her eyes at him, the eyes of a maiden who had just tasted first love’s kiss. _He had no wish to take it any further. Next time, I kiss her,_ he vowed to himself, _it will be as husband and wife._

“What are you doing with that whore?!” And there stood Cersei, green eyes ablaze like wildfire in the door. She pounced on them like a lioness with rabies, scratching at Brienne, screaming and cursing them to hell, shouting in between that King’s Landing had fallen, but that Aegon would only find it burned to the ground by wildfire.

Jaime had needed all his strength to throw her onto the ground and keep her pinned down, while she kicked and bit and screamed. He punched her in the face with his golden hand. “Where’s Tommen! Where’s Myrcella!” he shouted at her in a panic.

“Dead! They’re both dead!” she yelled at him. “The Dornish bastard whores poisoned her. I killed Tommen myself, like I’ll kill your ugly whore. I killed him! Dead! They’re all dead!”

He saw blood then, and his hand went around her ever so graceful throat. “Shut up! Shut up!” He had just wanted to silence her, but the only way to do that was by squeezing her airway tight shut.

“We must go!” Brienne said hurriedly when Cersei finally was silent. She was pulling him up. “Aegon will come for you, because you slew his grandfather. The Lannisters will come for you, because you strangled Cersei.”

“But what of Casterly Rock?” he finally muttered when he came out of his daze and saw her corpse with dead, broken green eyes staring at nothingness. “Who’ll see to the good treatment of the Riverland hostages?”

“The Castellan,” she said. “Give your orders to him. But we must go, now, before her guards find her like this.”

He wondered whether Robert Strong was one of them. His survival instinct awoke then, and he scrambled to his feet. “We’ll carry her to her room. Then send a servant to Cersei’s room. Tell her the Lord wishes to eat dinner in private with his sister – something simple, soup with bread. Then go to my own room, for I have your armor there and Oathkeeper. Wait there for me.”

With her corpse he sat in her room, waiting for the servant. Meanwhile his sister’s words still rang through his mind. He had slain one king for wanting to burn King’s Landing, and his sister claimed she had ignited a similar fate. _Was King’s Landing burning?_ Tommen and Myrcella. _She killed him herself! How? Why?_ _And I killed my own sister, my twin, my lover, the mother of my children. Throttled her with my one good hand._ He stared at her dead face. Someone had closed her eyes. _Did I do that? Or Brienne?_ He could see the bruising marks of his thumb and fingers at her delicate neck. He lifted his hand, studied his palm and fingers. _My fingers did that. Who’d have ever thought they could do that? Certainly not me._ Her blonde hair was not as short as it had been several months ago. It had grown, but it barely reached her ears even.He reached out and tried to brush her hair with the same hand that had killed her.She looked lovely and peaceful, more at peace than the last years of her life. It was as if she was sleeping almost, like a maiden princess – except for the hair – as he always had imagined her to be, but had found out too late she was not anymore, or perhaps never even was. He leaned over and kissed her cold, dead lips. He felt nothing – no remorse, no grief, no loathing. _And yet, I’m worse than a Kingslayer. I’m a Kinslayer, just like my brother. I murdered my own sister! Why don’t I hate myself for it? I should._ And yet he did not. _Am I so unfeeling?_ But then he remembered the kiss he had shared with Brienne, and the warmth he felt in his chest, when he had done that, and felt again remembering it. He had never felt that kind of love for Cersei. Desire, longing, possessiveness and need, in his cock, in his wrenching gut and his warped mind he had felt, but never the kind of warmth that made his heart burst and bloom like a flower reaching for the sun. He had thought the first was love. And maybe it had been, but it had been sickening love. This other, new love felt uplifting. And not even the recognition of what he had done could damage it.

When the knock of the servant came, he accepted the plate with the soup through only a slightly opened door, with a smile, and whispered, “We do not wish to be disturbed for the night. You can send breakfast up in the late morning. My sister is tired of her travels, and will hardly have any sleep tonight.”

He pretended to be talking to the corpse of his sister, telling her the sweet words of a lover, loud enough for the servant to hear. And then he waited, until he was sure the servant had left. Frya had a liking to gossip. Brienne had chosen well. Nobody would disturb Cersei’s room until the afternoon. He slipped out of Cersei’s room, making sure nobody was there to see him wandering around, and locked the door. He found Brienne waiting in his room, already armored up. Her eyes followed him, wondering. He pulled off his doublet and the shirt. A murderer on the run had no need of fancy, rich clothes with golden thread on red. Instead, he donned a simple shirt, the simplest tunic he could find, tearing of the sigil, and his mail over that. He rummaged through his clothes for a woolen cloak with a cowl. One that could keep him warm, but unrecognizable as well. Brienne still looked at him with the same wonder, questions and insecurity as when he first returned to his own room. _She wonders whether the kiss was a folly; that my consuming love of old for Cersei has swept everything else aside._ For a moment he was tempted to kiss her again, but he had made a silent vow to himself, and this one he did not mean to break. Instead he extended his hand out to her. And when she gripped his, his thumb caressed her hand softly, before he lifted it to his lips.

“Let’s go! We should be well on our way before they find out what has happened.”

When he lifted the bag he had kept in his room, she asked, “What is that?”

“Gendry’s warhammer. We must find him. Thoros told me to find him. We will find the Stark pup through him, maybe two, I don’t know. The Arya I wedded to the Boltons was not a Stark, but an imposter. If we do not protect the children, we are not worthy of the name warrior.” And like thieves in the night, they fled his childhood home, on the River Road.

It had taken them months of wandering, hiding and living of the road and woods, before they finally had their first lead on the Quiet Isle. The Eldest Brother told him he knew of a black haired boy with vivid blue eyes. That one had stayed on the Isle, for a time, mending whatever of steel that needed mending, while he waited for a ship to take him North. And so North they went, to White Harbor. But before they left the Isle, Jaime had been certain one of the brothers was watching and studying him. Big and burly he had been, but his face hidden in the shadow of his cowl – the one that dug the graves. Again it took them months at White Harbor to find a lead there. When he learned Rickon Stark had been found and was taken care of by Manderly, he almost wished to swear his sword to the boy. But Thoros had said to find the boy knight first and had talked about a Stark girl – Rickon is not Sansa. They picked up on Gendry’s trail and left for the wall. The red priestess had told them immediately where they could find Gendry, but they had been stuck there in winter weather and blizzards for a year almost, before they could depart for White Harbor again and set sail for Braavos. The Lord Commander had woken from his sleep and he did not hide his malice for him. _Every bit his father_ , Jaime had thought. _And as honorable,_ for Jon's vows prevented him to meddle with those who did not fall under his command. It had been a shock to him, later in Dorne, when he learned Jon Snow was actually Rhaegar’s son. And of course it had not been Sansa Stark they met in Braavos, but the younger sister, Arya Stark. Life seemed twisted and ironic in this way.

Jaime stepped into the tent set up for him, and Brienne helped him don his armor. It was the armor of old, when he was still a King’s Guard. The dragon queen had no King’s Guard like her forbearers. She had done away with that tradition completely, for they had failed to protect her father, her niece and nephew. And Cersei had stripped him of his rank even before that. But it had been what he was known for, and he had no other armor. Arya, the she wolf, was there too as well as Robert’s bastard son with a squire in tow. At least he had done right by them.

“Let me see,” he told Brienne, and she unsheathed the sword that hung from her back. He nodded at it contently. “Well made.” _And a great pity I have only the one hand to defend myself._

The hour was nigh and he contemplated the fact that he was to face the supposed other son of Rhaegar. He had seen him only as a glimpse in the throne room when he volunteered to be the dragon queen’s prisoner. He could not make out whether he looked like Rhaegar or not. _Thoros said the young knight, Gendry, would lead me to the Stark she wolf, Arya not Sansa, and she would lead me to Rhaegar’s son, but which son – Aegon or Jon? I’m to fucking fight him for my life. How the bloody seven hells am I to protect Rhaegar’s child, when I have to fight for my life?_

“I can’t kill him,” he said.

“You trained years with your left hand, and you learned to use your muscles differently. The month of prison won’t hurt your fighting style,” Brienne argued.

“That’s not the problem. I can’t kill him. If I kill him, I’m doomed.”

Brienne frowned, not understanding. But Arya eyed him watchful and curious. “What are you saying?”

“I wanted this trial to know whether the gods have forgiven me, for all the shitty things I’ve done, for breaking my vows. But if I win this trial by killing Rhaegar’s son, I have instantly failed. The gods may forgive me, but I won’t forgive myself.”

“But he may not be Aegon at all?” Gendry said.

“And how the fuck would I know that?” he spat. “Not even the bloody dragon queen knows. Why else is she so bent on marrying him? Why else did she alter the laws to allow for polygamy? She claims he’s a Blackfyre, but she’s not sure.”

“Then let me champion for you,” said Brienne.

“No.”

“You’re going in there and let him slaughter you?” she asked incredulously.

“No.” He sighed. “I’ll defend myself, but I will not strike him.”

Arya laughed. “Well, this will be a bloody long, cold day then.”

For a moment he smiled a little. “At least someone can laugh about this.”

“This is crazy,” said Gendry.

“It is,” said Jaime. “Now leave me. So, I can pray to the warrior before I step out there. Go to your seats and watch the show.” But before Brienne left his side, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. Even now that he was certain the only honorable way to fight for his soul today would most likely be the death of him, he refused to break his promise to himself.

Arya turned around, just as she stood in the light of the tent opening. “Do you know what to say to the Many Faced God, Jaime?” He shook his head. “Not today.”

When he was alone, he kneeled on his knee, leaning on the broadsword and he closed his eyes. _I pray to thee, Warrior, to give me strength and endurance and for at least one day allow me to be a true warrior._ He rose slowly, heaved a deep breath, and stepped outside, where the dragons guards were waiting for him and escorted him onto the field. The seats for the highborn and the field of the commoners was filled and packed, and the commoners booed at him.

He ignored it and looked at the young man at the other side of the field, fully armored, helmet with visor and gauntlets. Aegon carried a longsword with him, and Jaime knew the young man would most likely use half-sword dueling tactics against him. Ever since the loss of his hand, this required duel tactic against an armored opponent seemed forever out of his grasp. While practicing with Gendry and Brienne had inspired Jaime to work out altered guard positions and tactics to fight a man in armor with the basket hilted broadsword, he knew he would be a dead man against Aegon half-swording. Somehow he had to trick Aegon in choosing to duel him by holding the longsword with his two hands. So, he reached for his own King’s Guard helmet and threw it off. Next, he unstrapped the plate armor on his harms and even his legs. Besides, the weight would only tire him out too soon.

Aegon stood unmoving for a while. Jaime’s bold actions to undo most of his armor, except for the shoulders, back and breast plate had an even better result he could have hoped for. Aegon followed his example, though he kept his leg armor and gauntlets. There he stood, his silver hair whipping in the winter wind, his lilac eyes glaring, his mouth petulant. Jaime saw a young Rhaegar, though Rhaegar’s air had been much more melancholic, never bad-tempered. Jaime thought of Jon Snow in comparison. Jon lacked the Targaryen looks, but he had inherited his father’s character.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” the queen’s voice shouted, but sounded nowhere as impressive as in the throne room in the open air of a field like this. No, for that you needed to be a king with a booming voice. He turned and looked at her. “You stand accused for breaking your vows as King’s Guard and murdering the king you had sworn fealty to, for pushing a child from the rooftops, for slaying your own kin. How do you plead?”

“I plead for the gods to judge me,” he said.

“So, be it. That is why we are all here,” she shouted somewhat irritated. “Who will be your champion?”

“I will be my own champion. Who will be yours?”  

“Aegon is my champion.” She sat down and then clapped her hands. Jaime raised his eyebrows at that. “You may begin.”

Aegon did not wait and took long, clanking and ringing steps towards him, his longsword held in the short guard position with his longsword protruding straight at Jaime and one of his hands holding the blade in front of the cross and the other on the grip. Jaime bent his knees, held the broadsword high up, with the basket hilt far above his head, protecting both his head and hand, and the blade hanging pendant, closing the door on his other shoulder and arm. His hanging guard was somewhat different than with a longsword, as he pointed the cross section and the hilt towards Aegon and the blade closer to his own body. With a longsword this was too risky for the hand, but the basket hilt allowed him more maneuvering the one hand he had left. Then he waited for Aegon to come at him.

“What are you waiting for?” the young man growled at him.

“For you to come at me.”

“Like a coward,” Aegon barked. “As cowardly as when you slit my grandfather’s throat.”

“If you say so,” he retorted offhand.

Aegon lunged at his outer left. Jaime dropped the sword, and deflected Aegon’s longsword further outside with the base of the flat of the blade, so Aegon fell away from him, while leveling his own blade and used the opportunity to nick Aegon behind the knee. Then he moved his left leg out of the way and took a relaxed guard, letting the sword point rest on the ground before him.

Aegon staggered away from him, groaned, while his lilac eyes turned darker violet with rage. It was clear that the young man had realized he had set his advantage aside. Had Jaime a second hand to half sword, he could have been able to use the move to pull Aegon’s legs from under him and have him topple on his back. Aegon mirrored Jaime’s stance by setting himself in the iron door guard, holding the longsword with one hand on the grip and the second on the pommel for leverage.

Jaime brought his arm up, outstretched, the broadsword on level to his right shoulder, for the upward thrust he expected to come. And it did come, aiming at his face. Jaime lifted the point of his sword. Both swords clashed into a bind. Aegon raised the hilt of his sword above his head. The longsword still pointed at Jaime’s face from the outside. Jaime counter bound it equally. Now Aegon’s sword was on the inside. Aegon moved his sword, out of the bind, in a threat, both arms still raised in front of him. Jaime stepped closer, turned his wrist and brought the sword lower in a cut blow against Aegon’s arms and longsword in a strong angle. It blocked Aegon. Jaime kept the hilt high and used his golden stump to push Aegon's chest and the oung man away from him.

Aegon immediately held his sword in the archer guard, the longsword’s grip at hip height, his second hand gripping his blade halfway with the point raised. The sword was cocked back, exactly like an arrow in a drawn bow. Jaime brought his hilt to his hip as well with a raised tip, guarding his torso. Aggressively Aegon took a step forward, thrusting his sword upwards. Jaime forwarded his sword and up to deflect the coming blow, but having only the one arm to rely on against Aegon’s two arms, he barely could deflect it, nor could he strike at Aegon without ending up with the longsword being thrust into his own skull. Jaime advanced, lowering his hilt, pushing against Aegon’s blade to prevent it from harming him. The two swords were now aligned, both tips in the air, with Jaime on the inside. Then he slammed the pommel of his broadsword on Aegon’s wrist and over the crossguard. Aegon’s eyes widened in surprise, as Jaime twisted his hip and pulled Aegon easily forward onto the ground while twisting Aegon’s forearm. Jaime immediately freed his broadsword and placed the blade against Aegon's throat who tried to scramble up and roll away.

“Yield,” Jaime said.

“Never!” Aegon shouted back, and Jaime kicked him in the face, breaking his nose. He heard the sickening sound of the breaking of the nose. The crowd gasped. Blood spurted from his nose, as Aegon jumped on his feet, back in the arrow guard.

“I could have killed you,” Jaime hissed. “I do not wish for you to die, but I will hurt you if I must, boy.”

“Then it is you who will die, because I will never give up,” Aegon spat and attacked again, resulting with both their swords aimed at each other’s armpits.

Jaime had to use his right arm with the golden hand to block Aegon’s arm and then he realized he had one advantage in the fact that Aegon was still wearing his gauntlets. He snuck the point of his blade back, where he pushed with his golden hand against Aegon’s wrist, and pushed the point of the broadsword behind into the cuff of the gauntlet, pushing Aegon’s arm away. Jaime only had to use some leverage on his grip to make Aegon’s hand respond to his lead as if he was wielding a hand puppet, and step around to make Aegon stagger round like a dog on a leash.

“Yield,” Jaime repeated.

“Kill him, Kingslayer!” shouted a man from the commons. “Aye! Kill him! Make an end to it!”

Aegon’s forehead was sweating, and still he ground his teeth and clenched his jaw. His nose bridge was swollen and already looked blue, while dried blood clung to his mouth. Jaime’s green eyes flashed with amusement. Aegon tried to escape with his arm out of the hold, but Jaime placed his leg behind Aegon’s, embracing Aegon's waist with his right arm around the front, and used the leverage of his broadsword so that Aegon’s arm was lifted into the air. He made Aegon wave at the commons. The crowd roared with laughter.

“I’m giving you an out of this alive, Aegon. Now, yield.”

Aegon dropped his head, as giving if his consent, and Jaime pulled his sword point out. He let go of Aegon and turned his back on him, believing he had won the duel.

“Kingslayer!” Gendry boomed from the seats.

Jaime whirled around just in time to block Aegon’s thrust in a bind. Aegon raised the pommel above his head, the point staring into Jaime’s eye. “I said, never,” growled Aegon.

Quickly he followed suit in the high bind, then stepped forward to turn the blade and make the cut block for Aegon’s sword and arm. Aegon had expected Jaime to use the same trick again though and Jaime had performed it just a bit too quickly. Aegon brought his sworn down, striking Jaime’s sword. Jaime stepped forward, bringing his right arm under Aegon’s outstretched arms and trapping the longsword between his right arm and armpit. His own broadsword followed in suit to slide underneath Aegon’s arms to twist it and placed it against Aegon’s throat. If he could lock his handless arm under Aegon’s wrists he would be in the position to break both wrists, thereby ending the fight. But Aegon was prepared for it, continuing in his own step forward, coming to his side, and sliding the longsword further underneath Jaime. Aegon grabbed the upper side of the blade of his longsword behind Jaime with his other hand, and wrenched Jaime's shoulder out of its socket. Jaime was brought onto his knees, his face in the dirt as the belated pain from the dislocated shoulder flared through his handless arm and chest. The pain was too sudden and too great to prevent him from crying out, while he tried to shut his jaw at the same time and ended up biting his tongue. Metallic tasting blood welled in his mouth. Next, Jaime felt the cold, harsh, sharp steel against his neck.

Jaime closed his eyes. It was over. _Do it quickly, boy,_ he thought. In his mind he saw the ghosts of his mother, his father, his uncle and sister waiting. He even saw his three children – cruel Joffrey cheering on Aegon, Tommen stroking a kitten and Myrcella with her arms open wide. But the cold steel was gone and only then he became aware of the beating of something in the sky, and the cries of people panicking. Jaime opened his eyes only slightly and saw Aegon’s feet several feet away from him. Jaime let out a long breathe he had not known he had been holding. When he started to move though, the pain flashed through his arm and chest again. He was ready to faint. With nothing but his will, he forced himself up, blindly raising his sword in guard for a blow. At least, his sword arm was unharmed.

As Jaime got onto one knee, and then the other, a large shadow loomed over him, blocking the winter sun from sight. Rolling and twirling winds sent his blond locks flying in all directions. The shrieks and screams from the commons grew louder, Jaime rose his eyes to the sky and had never seen a dragon this close before. _Well, I never saw a dragon ever before in my life,_ Jaime chided himself. Opaque white wings it had, like a giant white bat, but the wing bones traveling through it looked golden. _Viserion_ , he realized. He could almost touch the creamy, lizard like scales on the stomach of the beast above him, as he saw the giant paws with humongous daggerlike claws reach for the ground. _Fuck, he’s going to land on me._ With his good arm, he tried to immobilize his dislocated arm as he tried to run for his life.

The white, creamy fire monster landed on the field, between Aegon and himself. All Jaime could see of the beast now was the giant tail that could break his body with one whip and the gold colored spinal crest. Aegon looked up in awe at the dragon’s head, and reached out with his hand, as if he entreated Viserion to allow him to touch him. Instead Viserion hissed, snapped his jaw - full of shining, black dagger - and backed up, bumping into Jaime. Viserion’s head whirled around, and Jaime gaped spellbound into Viserion’s lizard eyes of molten gold and gods-ugly head with golden horns. Spears were thrown at Viserion, who roared like a pack of lions and blew flames of pale gold shot through with red and orange. Aegon staggered back to flee, his fear evident in the white around his lilac pupils, while Viserion circled his back body around Jaime.

Finally, it started to dawn on Jaime that Viserion acted protective of him, of Jaime, like a mother hen around her chicks. And for some reason Jaime could not think of the dragon as a him, but only as a she.

“Viseria?” croaked Jaime finally.

She turned her head towards him again, blinked her eyes and then moved herself between the queen’s dragon guards with lances and Jaime. But Jaime was not paying them any attention anymore. There was only the dragon for him then. He dropped the broadsword, let go of his right arm, biting away the pain and gingerly stretched his left arm, mesmerized by the scales. He touched Viseria, and some guttural sound came from her throat. It sounded like cooing almost, or a purr like Tommen’s kittens used to do.

Queen Daenerys stood from her raised chair at the dais and shouted for people to calm down, ordering the dragon guards to step down. “I don’t want any further provocation!” she shouted. “Think of the people.” Jaime leaned his head and arm against Viseria and dropped on his knees. “The gods have declared Kingslayer an innocent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I wrote that last bit, because I doubt Jaime will ever be a dragonrider, nor advocate it. But in the narrative this was the sole thing that worked, and as soon as I wrote it, Viserion became Viseria instead. I'm also, nowhere implying that Jaime is a hidden Targ. Viserion always seemed the curious one to spread his wings and try out other people. And as 'she' was curious and drawn to the duel, I think she kindof developed a crush on Jaime. Can you blame her?  
> For those curious to see the duel moves I used visually (some of them are really awesome and funny, and help to get an idea why half-swording was the way to fight an armored opponent). It also makes astoundedly clear why Jaimy is truly handicapped as a warrior. Most of those (historical master manual) moves are impossible for him now, although at least his opponent cannot make certain tactics on him either, when they rely on locking his second arm. Why did they duel and fight like that? Cutting armor does absolutely zilch. So it rather turned into a semi-wrestle match to topple the opponent where every part of the sword was used as a tool for that purpose. I kindof wish they had knights fight like that in historical movies:  
> Jaime's nick behind Aegon's knee - based on this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1S_Q3CGqZmg&index=3&list=PL2D4363CB9ECD68CD  
> Jaime's cut move to Aegon's arm and push - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbmF6UCFuyo&index=2&list=PLB9D51945BB023DC1  
> Jaime's crossguard locking move to get Aegon on the ground - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1S_Q3CGqZmg&index=3&list=PL2D4363CB9ECD68CD  
> Jaime's tactic to stick his sword into Aegon's gauntlet and become a puppet master - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1S_Q3CGqZmg&index=3&list=PL2D4363CB9ECD68CD  
> Aegon's final move - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqaOMFuDpNI&index=6&list=PLB9D51945BB023DC1


	32. The Good Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that this latest post took so long. But it was not that easy a chapter to write, as it was too easy to slip into the hellish atmosphere of the Riverlands when Gendry first traveled King's Road to the God's Eye, which was not always appropriate. It also needed to include the necessary bridging from Jaime's chapter of his trial by combat to Gendry's journey to the God's Eye. And it's a very long chapter of 11000 words. I hope you like it!

“Ser Gendry!” Ser Daryl Tarly shouted as he rode up to him. Daryl was one of the commanding knights who usually rode with Richard Lonmouth at the vanguard. He was bulky, tall and far from handsome. He looked rather oafish and had watery red eyes. “Ser Lonmouth suggests to ready camp here.” Gendry looked up and around and realized he was at a vaguely familiar area on King’s Road. “There’s an inn a little further up the road with a small village, where the commanders can have a bath and sleep in a room, instead of a tent. It will be dark soon.”

“Thank you, Ser Daryl,” said Gendry. “I agree that we should set up camp there.” He realized they were coming to the inn where the gold cloaks came looking for him once when he journeyed with Joren for the Wall. They had left King’s Road after that and made for the woods to the God's Eye. “How many days does Ser Lonmouth suppose it will take before we reach Harrenhall?”

Ser Daryl Trant scratched his red beard. “Well, normally it should take us about nine and ten days from King’s Landing to Harrenhall, Ser Gendry.”

“Yes, I know that,” groaned Gendry. “But normal doesn’t apply. We have been marching that many days already.” He waved his hand at the hardened snow that had turned into ice on one part of the road, but hellish muddy pulp at the other side.

The wagons with food supply and tent material were stuck in the mud or snow every other moment. When one wagon was freed, then soon came the alert that another was trapped. Fifteen hundred Dothraki on horseback, of which five hundred served as convoy security, and three hundred mounted knights rode horses, with squires and attendants. Then there were a thousand pikes, five hundred longbow men of the Marches and a thousand infantry, all on foot, and of course the long train of wagons and carts of food, followed by whores and peddlers hoping to make a profit from an army on the move. The march to Harrenhall was as slow as a snail’s pace. On top of that, the weather was a bitch. When there was a snowstorm they barely made any progress at all, and just had to wait it out for a day. The daylight was so short that when the snow stopped falling, they would lose the rest of the daylight to break up camp, only to have to set it up again.

Daryl nodded. “Aye, it may take us another four or five days.”

“Well, let’s hope the bloody weather doesn’t hold us up anymore,” Gendry grumbled and shifted his warm, fur cloak around him to preserve the heat, glad he had decided to grow a beard after all. It was not as if Arya could complain about it chafing her chin, since she was riding for the Rock. At least his chin did not freeze off. He sighed. “Let’s get to that inn,” _and a warm bath_ , he thought.

He hoped his wife’s journey with Brienne and Jaime to Casterly Rock and Pinkmaiden from thereon fared better. While Arya made the longest route in miles overland via the Westerlands, she had a smaller army along and almost all on horseback – five hundred knights, a thousand light cavalry, five hundred Dothraki for convoy security and only five hundred infantry, and one white dragon tailing them.

It had been one of the most terrifying and equally amazing things Gendry had ever seen. Jaime had fought hard and looked as if having only one hand was an advantage. Several times he could have slain Aegon, but had not. And then it had seemed all over so suddenly, with Aegon dislocating Jaime’s shoulder and holding his longsword to Jaime’s throat. Even from that far, Aegon’s purple eyes and silver hair made Gendry think he was Egg reborn. Standing to his left, Arya had sucked in her breath, and even Brienne to his right betrayed emotion when her hand wrenched itself around his forearm. Afterwards, Gendry never found out whether Brienne had even known that she had done that. Aegon had looked at Queen Daenerys, awaiting her nod of consent for the final strike that would end Jaime’s life. But something had made Daenerys look up instead and Gendry had followed her gaze. Only then he became aware of an unfamiliar beating sound in the sky. At first, it had been a small shadow circling high up in the sky. To Gendry’s mind it looked like a giant eagle. But with a great speed it moved lower and then Gendry finally grasped he was staring up at a monstrous horned dragon of cream and gold. For a moment he stood frozen, even admiring this reborn world wonder, but then fear clutched at his heart.

Gendry grabbed Arya by the shoulders and ordered, “We must get away. That’s a fucking dragon!” _Just the size of that monster!_ “Arya!”

His wife had been staring at Viserion with open mouth, looking like an innocent child as he had never known her to be. “It’s beautiful!” she had whispered.

“The Others take its beauty. That monster can burn you to ashes, and I’m not having you near it.”

The ladies and lords around them were already screaming and trying to get away. Gendry was about to fling her over his shoulder and carry her off to safety, when she pointed. “Look, it’s descending on the field.”

Gendry turned his head. Viserion had landed and Aegon backed off, while Jaime jumped and slid across the mud and snow to keep from being crushed underneath it.

“Viserion!” Aegon had called for the dragon who was eyeing him. “It’s me. It worked after all!” The people running and shouting to get away would not have heard it, but Gendry had.

Queen Daenerys cried, “Aegon! Watch out!” Viserion’s molten pupils had grown in size, like a cat’s when it was about to jump a mouse.

But Aegon did not hear or heed the dragon queen’s warning. His face was lit up with delight and joy. _The fool still believes Viserion has come to bond with him,_ Gendry thought in derision and simultaneous pity. Aegon lifted his hand, reaching out, taking a step closer. But then Viserion hissed and snapped his jaw, its black diamond teeth glimmering. The young man finally realized his mistake and very slowly took one step after the other back in retreat. The fear on the noble face grew more evident with every passing moment. Dragon guards had appeared and threw spears at Viserion, one piercing its wing and Viserion spouted such a column of fire that it put five guards aflame all at once. Aegon ran.

Jaime had remained close. His lips moved in what only could be a prayer, while Viserion encircled him. Viserion looked around at Jaime and then the Kingslayer reached out to touch the dragon.

“Jaime! No!” Brienne cried, pushing forward in Jaime's direction, through the mob that piled the podium. Gendry had reached out for her, but it was too late, and he dared not leave Arya's side. His wife was too light, too lithe, and could possibly end up being trampled by people running in a panic.

Viserion let Jaime touch him, and the Kingslayer fell on his knees, while the dragon queen shouted to stop throwing spears at the beast. “Think of the people!” she shouted, and, “The gods have declared the Kingslayer an innocent!”

In the chaos and panic, Gendry had finally forced Arya to move. She shouted for him to get Brienne, but he ignored it. “Enough, Arya! The Others take them all, but you are my main concern.” And before she could protest any further, he did lift her in the air and carried her off.

It was only several hours later, that the dragon queen returned with her guards as well as an unconscious Jaime and a fretting Brienne. Meanwhile Viserion perched himself on the battlements of the Red Keep, and Queen Daenerys had decided it safest to let the Kingslayer recover in a room with a view on those battlements in Maegor's Holdfast. Milk of the poppy kept Jaime in an unsettled sleep for a whole day, while Qyburn had set his dislocated shoulder. There would be no permanent damage the maester had said, except for the slight chance that Jaime’s shoulder might be prone to dislocate much easier in the future. Qyburn had looked hard and strangely outside of Jaime’s window at Viserion guarding the Red Keep, while the queen’s Hand, Tyrion Lannister, had waddled in with a harsh face, staring at his brother.

“Never met a dragon in your life,” he mumbled angrily. “Never even cared for them, and you frigging get a dragon as a champion.” He looked around, only then seeming to realize that Brienne, Arya and Gendry witnessed his petty remark. He chose a chair and looked broodingly at his unconscious brother. "You even hav a better room in Maegor's Holdfast than I ever had."

"Why did she proclaim Jaime innocent?" Brienne asked in a demanding voice.

“She looks upon those dragons as her children,” Tyrion sighed, leaning an elbow on the chair's arm. “Viserion chose Jaime for his rider. He always was the most eager to bond, but only with someone of his choice, like Plumm. The moment Viserion championed for Jaime, Queen Daenerys would have to kill one of her children or risk destruction and fire upon King’s Landing with the attempt to execute my brother.”

“But Jaime has no dragonlord blood,” said Arya puzzled. “How strange.”

Tyrion rested his hand on his fisted hand. "My twin siblings look all Lannister, for sure. But the mad king took a liking to my father's wife, Joanna, and his liberties during the bedding ceremony. At one point, not long after the marriage, queen Rhaella dismissed my mother from her side at court to Casterly Rock. The queen dismissed many ladies of her court, complaining about Aerys' II indiscretions with them. There were rumors. I don't think the timing works for my siblings, but Jaime and Cersei did have an incestuous relationship, and Cersei was as paranoid as a cookook and obsessed with wildfire like the Mad King. Their monstrous son Joffrey certainly matched Aerys' cruelty and cowardness. What's the saying again? That when a Targaryen is born, it's a toss up whether they turn out mad as a bat or sane. Who knows? Maybe Jaime and Cersei were not my father's, but Aerys'? If so, both Jaime and I slew our fathers." He grinned misschievously. "At least Jaime and I finally would have something in common."

"Do you truly believe that?" asked Gendry.

"No." Tyrion shook his head. "It is possible that for some dragons no dragonlord blood is necessary. There is no evidence that Nettles was a Velaryon bastard. She bonded with Sheepstealer nonentheless. Maybe the histories only claimed her to be a Velaryion bastard to hide the fact that people without dragonlord blood could bond with a dragon just as well."

"Your attempt with Viserion.. Did you believe you might not be Lord Tywin's son?" Arya asked gently.

Tyrion rolled his black and green eyes at Arya, his lips pressed together stern and bitter. "I considered the possibility. My father organized a tournament at King's Landing where my mother had been present the year before I was born. This was several years before Mad Aerys made his chastity vow at Baelor's sept. My father often said I could not be his son. He must have feared it, but dared not defile my mother's memory. Still, he refused to make me his heir. I am quite sure now that I am Lord Tywin's son. Of all three of us, my morbid, vengeful nature is very much that of my father." He pouted his lips and gazed at the three of them. “I can count on your discretion regarding this." It was not a question. "I’ll send someone for you if he regains consciousness,” Tyrion said. “I would like to be alone with my brother now.” Brienne opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Tyrion said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill him.” He smirked. "For now, anyway. I cannot vouch for my future conduct."

Tyrion had been true to his word. The next morning a messenger came to their room to inform them the Kingslayer was awake. Jaime smiled sheepishly when Gendry entered. “I’d share my milk of the poppy with you, but I don’t think you would be overly fond of it.” He grimaced when he shifted his position. “I guess I’m to be counted to remain amongst the living.”

“Yes," said Gendry. "The queen proclaimed you an innocent, once Viserion championed Aegon.”

“It’s Viseria,” coughed Jaimed, screwing up his face even more from the pain. “It’s a she, not a him.”

“Viserion, Viseria, whatever. It’s a dragon, your dragon apparently.”

Jaime’s eyes flicked towards the window that allowed a view on the white dragon at the battlements. Gendry expected a typical smug sneer of Jaime’s to grace his face, but instead Jaime narrowed his eyes at the beast. “I can’t imagine why really. I’ve got not dragon blood, a Lannister through and through, and I don’t know a thing about dragons.”

For a moment he glanced at Arya, who flicked her eyes in the negative. Gendry agreed. Tyrion's ideas were best left unmentioned. “Well, if it’s a she as you say," Gendry smiled. "Perhaps she just happened to fancy you in your white cloak and with your golden hair.”

“Maidens seem to like me, true.” Jaime’s grin finally appeared. “Whatever the mysterious reason, my little brother was miffed about it. Apparently he attempted to have Viseria accept him with giving her sheep before Aegon tried the same trick as well. Sheep do not seem to appeal to her.”

“Well, the queen wants us gone as soon as you can get up,” said Gendry. “She’s not unhappy about Aegon not being a dragonrider, but the 'Kingslayer' with no dragon blood in him is perhaps even a bigger taint on her claim to rule. Not to mention that nobody in the city dares to stir outdoors with Viserion… sorry, Viseria guarding the city.”

“And then there’s the problem about Casterly Rock,” Arya chimed in. “Tyrion is Lord of Casterly Rock now. With your disappearance after …” Arya pressed her lips together. “Well, you know, at least Tyrion was the sole Lannister of the Rock left. But you’re older, innocent of the crimes you've been accused of, and have a dragon to command. Will the two of you start a war between yourselves over Casterly Rock?”

Jaime looked at the window again, just when Viseria decided to fly off and make a turn across the bay. If you could forget that it was a fire monster in the flesh, it looked graceful. “I don’t know whether I can command her,” said Jaime. Then he muttered under his breath. “Not sure even whether I want to ride a dragon at all.” His green eyes stared hard at Arya. “Tyrion can keep the bloody Rock. I never desired it, and it holds too many memories of my sister.”

They both looked at Jaime in silence, waiting.

“I want to see Lady Brienne,” he finally said, pouting almost like a petulant child. “I expected to see her, but the first one I saw was Tyrion and then you two. Where is she?”

“She’s waiting outside,” Arya whispered.

Jaime rolled his eyes. Gendry supposed Jaime despaired at Brienne’s sudden reticence to be at his side, ever since the queen had ordained him released from any further accusations. “Well, can you call her in, Gendry.”

Gendry nodded, stepped outside and saw Brienne, in a blue dress - nothing fancy, but pretty enough, and it matched her eyes - pacing the hall nervously. She looked up instantly, and her sapphire eyes were like those of an anxious hare. “He’s asking for you.”

A blush appeared on her cheeks – quite a fetching one, Gendry thought. “W-Will you remain inside?”

Gendry sighed exasperated and lifted his eyebrows. “You’ve been by his side, all by yourself for how many years, my lady?”

She clenched her fists stiffly beside her dress. “I know. But it’s different now. He might propose.” The last she uttered in anguish, as if it was something dreadful.

 _So, that is why she is so nervous._ Not that it was a surprise really. After all, Jaime had said, right in front of the both them, that he planned to do so if the gods declared him innocent. _How much difference could there be between declaring your intentions a week ago and the actual moment of asking?_ Gendry could not tell by his own experience, as he ended up being proposed to on a scaffold to save his life. Finally, Gendry coughed. “All the more reason for us not being present. A man needs to gather his courage too for the actual request to be made.”

Brienne stared at him, taking several deep breaths that calmed her. She straightened her back. “Alright.”

Gendry opened the door for Brienne and signaled at his wife to leave the room, who stepped out before Brienne could stop her, her forehead in a frown Gendry recognized as her being curious. “Why…?” she began, while he bowed his head to kiss her, simultaneously closing the door.

By nightfall, they had seen Brienne, but she gave no hint at all of what Jaime and she had discussed other than the state of his health. It had been a topic of discussion between his wife and himself.

“She acts as if nothing happened. I guess he didn’t propose,” said he to Arya.

“I believe you’re wrong,” teased Arya. “She had a certain sparkle, and a little knowing smile. She looked aglow.”

Five days later it turned out that Arya had the right of it. A raven had been dispatched for Tarth shortly after Arya and Gendry had left Jaime’s room. And on the fourth evening a raven had returned with the consent of Brienne’s father. Gendry and Arya were not aware of it, until the very morning they were requested by the pair to be the sole witness to the marriage, aside from Lord Dayne. Gendry stood for Brienne’s father to unfasten her maidencloak of suns on pink and crescent moons on blue, while Jaime solemnly cloaked Brienne with his red and gold Lannister one. It was very serene, and with little outward sign that betrayed either were happy. Only those who knew them, could see the sparkle in Jaime's green eyes and a soft glow in Brienne's appear when they made their vows. Arya had ordered for a dinner to be prepared by Hot Pie, and the two couples shared it in Arya's apartment. Although Gendry and Jaime sought out the rest of the Wolf Pack to share drinks with for a short while as well as the news.

The caravan came to a halt, and Gendry rode forward towards the van with Arthur and Rhiki in tow. The hair in the back of his neck tingled as he recognized the village and the inn where he had bathed when he was on his way to the Wall with Yoren; where Arya had been seeking trouble with Rorge and Biter in the cage and he intervened to get away from them, because they scared him; where Arya suddenly dragged him behind the bushes when the Gold Cloaks arrived, looking to arrest him. The same place, a different time. Lem was already giving orders to the innkeepers. Arya’s handmaiden Rhiki was fair skinned and had light blue eyes and brown hair. Rhiki had told him once that her mother had been a Dothraki warlord’s favorite slave for her light skin and blue eyes. Though she was younger than Arya, she could pass for the princess for those who only had written reports about Arya Stark, certainly when wearing Arya’s cloak with the direwolf sown on the back of it.

When Lem saw Gendry and Rhiki coming up, he shouted, “You will give Princess Arya Stark and her husband Ser Gendry Baratheon the best room you have, good woman.” He added. “And I want the second best.”

Actually, Gendry feared the inn’s room might be colder than the Dothraki tent he shared with Rhiki and Arthur. When Rogo first learned of the plans to siege the Twins and the Freys who had dishonored guest right, he demanded the right to be part of the troops. His Khal had said they should be destroyed, and his honor as a Dothraki depended on it. Gendry also suspected Rogo desperately wanted somethign to do, to increase the number of bells on his braid. Riding through the Dornish Marches as border control would less likely earn him braid bells. Gendry and Arya had informed Rogo the weather would grow worse, just more snow and cold. Bravely, Rogo had claimed the Dothraki knew winter too. It could snow, sometimes, but most importantly the winds of the grassy plains could freeze your butt off. Their tents were built for it. Gendry had to admit that at least was true. And in fact, with the Dothraki covered in pelts, layers of furs inside out, hats with flaps covering their ears and fingerless fur gloves they were armed against the cold better than most of the infantry. It was the snow though that slowed everyone to a snail’s pace, that fouled everyone’s mood. If it made Gendry grouchy, it was ten times as worse for the Dothraki. Lord Dayne had offered to take a large contingent of the Dothraki by sea, which they refused instantly. But Gendry wondered they might be regretting that decision by now. Even Rogo who had always been rather cheery and liked to talk and joke, tended to scowl morosely nowadays _. They better not bloody fucking desert us._

Gendry dismounted Black, and Arthur hurried after him on his heels. “Are any of our spies back again?” asked Gendry to Lem as he handed Black’s bridles to Arthur to have him put into the stables. For one night, his horse would be warm and dry as well.

“One,” muttered Lem. “It seems knights of the Vale with troops have arrived at Harrenhall already.” They walked inside the inn, where the innkeepers and servants tried to clean tables and waved at them to follow them upstairs.

“How many?”

“Give or take fifteen thousand. Not that many.”

“Not that many?” said Gendry in shock. “That’s more than triple we have at the moment, and more than the whole army Queen Daenerys gave us.”

“The Vale can summon over forty thousand men if they want.”

Gendry swallowed hard. _Fucking forty thousand men._ _Why the hell had the Eyrie never used their forces so far?_ _With the present state of the Riverlands and the North they probably could conquer both for Lord Baelish if they wanted to._

“The banners seen were House Corbray’s three ravens with red hearts, Redfort’s red castle, the broken wheel of House Waynwood and a falcon on red and white diamonds of House Hardyng of the Eyrie. So, only the houses closest to the Eyrie itself have been able to fully mobilize troops to the Riverlands. A minority of other houses, such as House Hunter and House Royce have been seen as well, just not in full force yet. I expect they will have twenty thousand by the time we arrive at Harrenhall.”

“Lord of Light protect us! Has Lord Baelish been seen?”

They had arrived at the upper floor with rooms. “Here’s our master room, Your Highness,” said the innkeeper, curtsying and bowing her head to Rhiki.

“Thank you, madam,” said Gendry, in order to keep Rhiki from betraying her accent to the graying matron-looking woman. “Can you send someone up to prepare a bath?”

“Aye, Ser. At once, Ser.” She turned and waved at Lem to follow her.

Gendry took long strides after them, leaving it up to Arthur and Rhiki to settle and prepare the room. His conversation with Lem was not yet finished.

“No,” said Lem. “Neither the mockingbird, nor the titan have been seen.”

“What puzzles me the most is how they managed to get there so fast with that many? I thought the mountain passes were unsurpassable during winter.”

Lem only shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps they kept the way clear. They stayed out of any of the wars the past six years, stored all of their harvest, and must have patrolled and kept the paths clear. It seems likely they prepared for a winter attack on the Riverlands or early spring. Lord Baelish might very much want the North, using Lady Sansa as an excuse to rally the support of the Vale lords, who've been frustrated for years they were not allowed to go to war previoiusly.”

While Lem closed his door, Gendry pulled his hand through his hair as he strode to his own room and heaved out a deep breath. _Seven hells, Lord Baelish has been waiting for an opportunity such as this. What are we to do with just four thousand and three hundred against twenty thousand?_

A servant boy was pouring hot water in a tub, while Arthur rushed towards him to undo his breast plate. When he finally eased himself in the bath, as Arthur shut the door behind the servant, Gendry listened to the noise of the encampment outside. Somewhere Tom was singing bawdy songs. He heard laughter, orders being shouted around, the hammering that went to setting up camp. It seemed to him that the mood of the men was after all not that bad. He closed his eyes and in his mind was back with his wife. The last day, before he departed, she had seemed troubled and distracted.

He had caressed her cheek fondly with his thumb, and asked, “What’s the matter?” She sighed and then stared at him with saddened eyes, but remained mute. “Hey, tell me what’s bothering you.”

“You’ll probably think I’m making too much out of it.”

He smiled at her. “If I don’t know what’s on your mind, I can hardly think you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not pregnant, yet, I think,” she pouted. “I’m cramping,” she muttered. “And there was some blood when I got up this morning.”

He smiled and chuckled, and gathered her in his arms. “There’s time. We’re both young and only been wedded for a little over a month.”

She pushed him softly away, somewhat annoyed. The past few days she did not like him pressing her too tightly against him, and she had complained during their lovemaking that her breasts hurt slightly. Which he found a great pity, really. Her breasts seemed to grow fuller and heavier by the day, and he loved the firm feel of them in his palm. Even her nipples had both darkened and enlarged, and needed no stimulation from him to pucker anymore. Of course, he doubted she would ever have a large bosom, but in proportion to her lithe built, she had women’s breasts now.

“There’s no rush, my love,” he whispered huskily in her ear. “And perhaps it’s better that way. I don’t want you having to deliver a child in the middle of a siege in the snow. We don’t know how long it will take us before we get to Winterfell.”

“But Nymeria already has her litter,” she muttered, frowning and evading his kiss.

“So?” He looked down on her. “It’s not as if you would have quintuplets if you were pregnant.”

She giggled at that remark. “That’s true.”

“Besides, I know the best remedy against cramps,” he murmured as he leveled his lips to hers and his hand could not resist cupping her tempting, full breasts in his hand, while he tugged her shirt out of her breeches with his other hand.

She giggled and said, “Gendry,” in a way as if she was chiding him, while he dipped his mouth into her neck.

“Arya,” he had mumbled back.

Gendry opened his eyes and sat straight up in the bath. While it was tempting to recall the lovemaking that followed, it only increased the ache for her, and with Arthur and Rhiki padding around in the room, chatting, and picking the dinner from the plates that had been brought up by a servant of the inn, this was not the time for it. Gendry looked over his shoulder to make sure they could not see the evidence of his arousal peeking out of the water. Well, it would just need to subside by itself, he thought, and he plunged the washing cloth in the water to rub his shoulder, arms and chest down.

With his mouth full, chewing the last of his wild duck, Arthur said, “Shall I clean your back, Ser?”

“Aye,” said Gendry and he leaned over, covering his cock with his hands. “And then later you can show me some of that writing again.”

Before he had cared little about learning reading and writing. Even when his curiosity grew, Gendry had been content with Arya being able to do it for the both of them. Without Arya though, he depended too much on others being able to read, such as Lem, and he liked it much less to reveal his illiteracy to his fellow commanders. Who would have thought that sneaky bastard Lem could actually read? When they were all still sworn swords to the Brotherhood without Banners, Lem seemed no more than some levied soldier, speaking like a commoner. But he actually turned out to be of noble birth, had known Gendry's father King Robert and fought for him as well as had been friend and suire for the crown pince Rhaegar Targaryen; and he could read and write.

So, one day, not long after they had ridden out of King’s Landing, and Gendry had felt embarrassed whenever the other commanders studied the maps in the central tent, Gendry asked, “Art, can you read and write?”

“Aye, Ser.”

 _Well, at least my squire can finally do something more useful than dress me_ , he thought. But he hoped Arthur could do more even. “Is it difficult?” Gendry had asked without directly looking at Arthur and as nonchalant as he could fake it.

“It takes practice, but I think anyone can learn. Our maester taught several children at Harvest Hall, not all wards, but the Castellan’s daughter too. And I heard that King Stannis’ Onion Knight, born a common man and a smuggler most of his life, learned it during the War of the Five Kings.”

It was a good enough reply. _If an older smuggler can learn it, maybe I can as well_. “Would you teach me to write my name?”

Arthur widened his eyes at him and opened his mouth, closing it again, to finally say, “Sure.”

And so that same evening Arthur wrote his name for him and told him which letter was which. Just _Gendry_ , and then afterwards _Arthur_ , and _Rhiki_ , and _Arya_. Then he asked Arthur to write the names of each respective house, although _Baratheon_ gave him a bit of a headache. Gendry kept the parchment of names in his pocket and glanced at it several times the following day during the march. The second evening, he asked Arthur to instruct him how to write it himself. He found quills clumsy things to hold and he made a mess of it, with blotches and unable to write as small as Arthur could. Sometimes he discovered that in his concentration he was biting his tongue while it protruted partly between his lips. The third evening he had Arthur write every possible letter of the alphabet for him. There even was a song to remember the order of the letters by, and he sang it in his head while riding all of the next days. He had Arthur write out the names of places, such as King’s Landing and Harrenhall, Casterly Rock, Pinkmaiden, Saltpans, Twins, and Riverrun. Next time the commanders were gathered in the tent around a map, he actually could recognize the names and even attempted to make sense of the other names. It was a far cry from writing a letter or reading a book, but they were not meaningless scribbles anymore.

After eating the childrens' leftovers and his letter and writing lesson with Arthur, Gendry ordered Rhiki and Arthur to sleep. Rhiki lay herself down on a couch near the hearth, and Arthur huddled himself in a fur bedroll close to the fire as well. When Gendry snuffed out the clover candles and climbed in the large bed, his true ache ate away at him. His hands inadvertently stroked the mattress and the sheets where normally his wife was supposed to be. To lessen the ache he stuffed the pillows, blankets and furs against his chest or back. He had grown too used to her body lying next to him, her soft breathing of her sleep, the warmth of her back, even the jabbing elbow or pointy knee, or her fingers resting on his chest. Sure, he missed nuzzling her, caressing her, kissing her, making her moan and cry, but most of all he just missed her presence and nearness, their banter, and even their arguments. _So, this is what it must feel like for all those warriors before me, leaving their wife behind when going to battle and just wishing to get it over and done with to return home._ Except, he had no home, and his wife actually intended to do battle herself, just by another route.

Gendry closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come soon and make him forget his wife was not in his bed. But he felt wide awake, and the ache deepened to his gut and his groin. He tossed, he turned, hoping another position would lessen it. Alas, no. Finally, he opened his eyes, sat up on his elbows and stared at the sleeping forms of Rhiki and little Arthur, listening to their breathing to assure himself they were asleep. There was the familiar light, but irregular wheeze of Arthur. Rhiki’s breathing was lighter, hardly audible.

He lay back again, spit the palm of his hand, closed his eyes and reached for his cock. He imagined Arya as she had been on their last night in the Red Keep, naked, underneath his upheld weight. Gendry imagined her silk thighs caressing his hips, the softness of her skin under the touch of his fingertips, the hardness of her sensitive nipples as he carefully encircled them with his tongue, the soft as well as the high pitched gasps that escaped her half opened wet lips.

“Look at me,” he had whispered, and her grey eyes stared back at him darkly and full of longing, when he pressed his hard cock gently against her velvety entrance. He wanted to see her, and he wanted her to see him. He nearly closed his eyes when he felt the head of his cock sink into her tight, but oh so slick and warm welcome. But he had not. She had arched her back, raised her hips, helping him to submerge, her eyes half closing. “Look at me,” he urged her again, while he lifted his hips before boring down into her well anew and wrapped a hand around her head, before it searched for her hand that lay near.

Their fingers intertwined, above her head, and as they did, Arya opened her eyes again and chewed her bottom lip, which made him grin. But then slowly it was as if he was drowning, submerging into a storm, into an ocean of wild waves beating onto his chest, as he dug into her at leisure, fully and rhythmically. He was only aware of her eyes, soft, dark, deep, a well of emotions, endless, mysterious, warm. The intimacy of their palms held together and staring into each other's eyes made it almost as if they were not joined in body, but as if he was drilling into her soul, and she embraced his, while he guided her and him higher and higher, until it became almost unbearable. How she clutched, bruised and scratched him with the other hand, he never was much aware of at the time, nor how his other hand could have left fingerprints into the cheek of her ass. All he felt were her stormy eyes, wavering, glowing, soft and fierce all at once. It was as if their eyes spoke and had a whole conversation. _You are mine, and I am yours_ , they said, they replied. And, _I love you_. _I love you too, wife. Gendry, my husband, my warrior, my rock, my wolf. Arya, my everything, m’lady, my wife, my fierce survivor, my she-wolf._ And then tears started to brim at the brink of her eyes, and he thought his heart burst out of his skin right then and there - both of their hearts - gushing him wave after wave after wave, until it seemed light sprouted out of his crown like a fountain, rushing back into the far tips of his toes, his seed and his balls following.

Gendry’s hand beat hard and fast at his cock as he gritted his teeth, and then he felt the alarming rush of the oncoming orgasm, of the contractions in his balls and the spurting of his seed. At least, it would make him drowsy, relax and would help him sleep, as he remembered her eyes breaking in vulnerable sobs and tears like they had never done before, and how soft she had been afterwards in his arms, the love and defenselessness in her voice. He was touched by seeing her so vulnerable, and he had been shaking, trembling almost no less himself. They had exposed their souls to each other then, and talked to each other almost until the morning, caressing and hugging and kissing and enjoying each other’s company without further need.

They had laughed, shared secrets of their own youth, little stories that were not important, but acquainted them with each other as they were before they ever knew one another. He told her how he used to tease Tobho Mott’s servant girl Mary by pulling her braids, and one time little Mary had lifted her skirts because he was curious whether it was true that girls did not have a cock to pee with. Mary had wanted a kiss on the cheek for it in return. After that he dared not pull her pig tails anymore. Arya told him how she once had crashed into her parents room while they were coupling, because she had some nightmare because of one of Old Nan’s scary stories. They had instructed her to never enter without knocking and installed a latch on the inside of the door after that. A year later, while her mother was feeding baby Rickon, she had asked whether babies were made the way she had seen them together that one time. Her mother was never really one to blush, but Lady Stark had turned red as a beet then. And Arya had only made matters worse, by explaining she only asked, because it looked different than the dogs and the horses. Her sister had shouted, “Eew! Aryaaaaaaaa!” at her. She must have been five then, Arya guessed.

Smiling at the memory of many of the small childhood stories of theirs, and imagining Arya as an impertinent girl of five, Gendry finally fell asleep. When he woke in the morning, Rhiki eyed him curiously, but also seemed to act as if she was ashamed of something. He turned away to hide the blush at the thought that Rhiki might have been awake when he sought release in the night. But when they rode out, he thought Rhiki’s eyes seemed swollen and reddened as if she had been crying over something. The weather was clear. It was cold, but the sky was blue without any cloud. The temperature had dropped significantly overnight, but that meant the road had hardened and the carts and wagons of food hardly got stuck in the mud. By early afternoon, Rogo joined his company and rode next to him for a while. The young Dothraki man seemed cheerful and was smiling.

“Gendry miss Khaleesi Arya?” the Dothraki asked. Surprised, Gendry nodded. Rogo chuckled and made a suggestive pumping gesture with his fist. “Gendry should fuck Rhiki. She Arya’s servant. Take her place.”

Gendry widened his eyes. “No! I can’t do that.”

This in turn confused Rogo. “You are man – strong, healthy, fast. Arya is yours, servants are yours.” Then he leaned closer. “Rhiki fears you think her no good fuck.”

“No,” he blurted out. “I mean, I don’t know. I will not _fuck_ Rhiki.” He coughed. “I mean, I’m a married man.”

Rogo tsk-ed in disagreement. “No need for man to go bed with hard cock and …” Rogo made another suggestive gesture near his own groin. “If no wife, then fuck servant. Why Arya picked Rhiki, no? Looks like her.”

Gendry shook his head vehemently. “We chose Rhiki to pass for Arya for the spies.” He lifted his hand to his eyebrows as if he was peering in the distance. “Westeros men only have the wife for…” He made the fist gesture, blushing like a torch. The crass gestures and words were not how he liked to express himself when it came to his wife. Even their most lustful and wild coupling had always been an expression of love for one another.

Rogo frowned. “Rogo see many Westeros men, married men, in camp with whores.”

Gendry scrunched his nose and scratched the back of his head. He did have some sympathy for the chaps who ended up taking a whore to their bed. The ache for Arya’s presence was so overwhelming at times, that he could imagine _another_ man than him succumbing to the hope of having that void filled by just any other woman’s body. “I only want my wife, Rogo,” he grumbled decidedly. “Another woman will not make me miss her less. Only more. And Arya would unman me if I ever touch another woman.” He made a hacking gesture to emphasize his meaning.

Rogo shook his head sadly. “Westeros women boss of men. Gendry should not feel shame and blush.” Rogo waved his hand to his face.

“I love Arya, including her bossiness.”

“Man can love wife, still fuck other women,” said Rogo.

By now Gendry was positively glowering. “Not this man.” He pulled his reins, pressed his heels into Black’s flank and urged him into a canter with his hips.

When he later crossed Rhiki as she went out of his tent and he was just about to enter, he laid his hand on her shoulders and took her apart. “Rhiki, did you talk with Rogo this morning?”

Rhiki instantly dropped her gaze and looked at her feet. “Rhiki only wanted to know what she do wrong in master’s eyes.”

“Because I do not invite you into my bed?” Without looking up, she nodded her head. He sighed and brushed his hand across his bearded chin. “Rhiki, I know your mother was a slave with the Dothraki, but you are not a slave here. You are pretty enough, but this has nothing to do with you. I only desire my wife.” He patted her on the shoulder. “It has always been so for me. I looked for her in the North and Braavos, and I waited for her to become a woman. I miss her, yes, a lot. Last night, I thought of her.”

Rhiki stared at him with big blue eyes. She was so young still, younger than Arya, perhaps not even yet thirteen, but of similar height. “Arya your moon, sun and stars?”

He grinned. “And the snow, clouds, and rain, yes.”

This seemed to lift the girl’s spirits. “Rhiki understand.”

For a moment he caressed her cheek with his thumb. “One day a man will think you are his moon, sun and stars. And on that day, send him to me or Arya.” He winked at her, and went inside.

For several days more the Lord of Light had pleased them with clear weather and finally make good distance, and they arrived at the eastern shore of the God’s Eye where they set up camp at a village with a holdfast. His stomach churned and he felt bile rise as he recognized the burned and ruinous holdfast. His mind flashed back to the moment he looked out from the battlements in the dark at the oncoming army of Ser Amory. Too few they had been to resist the many men climbing the walls. That had been the first time he actually ever used a sword - the cheap sword from the sellsword Praed that had died in the wagon on the road long before disaster struck. It had shattered on the helm of the first man he hit with it. He felt rather stupid then. Helmets were made to protect someone's head and as an armorer he should have known such cheap metal would break upon impact. But at least the helmet fell off, and Arya had killed him instead, after which he took the dead man's sword. Not that he had managed to kill anyone with it though.As he walked through the snow covered, blackened ruins, he also noted smoke coming from the hall, which had been repaired. The village cottages too were repaired with new roofs, and people lived here again. The dead were long gone, eaten or burried. Gendry did not know which and he dared not ask, though he stopped at the place where he thought they had burried Yoren. The wandering watchman talked harshly and bluntly, but had seemed an otherwise fair man to him back then. _He knew_ , Gendry thought, _not just about Arya, but me as well_. _Yoren felt us two had to escape at all cost. And now I'm the wandering crow, deeply involved in the realm's politics and a highborn wife no less._

From where he stood it looked as if the lake was frozen shut. It had been Rowland who had told them in Dorne about the Isle of Faces located in the middle of the  God’s Eye. With the clear blue sky and the reflection of light on the snow and ice, Gendry thought he could actually see an island on the horizon and what seemed to be red canopy of leafs. _Can you just walk to the Isle of Faces, now_ , he wondered. He doubted it though. _Surely, the green men guarding the island would have weakened the ice around it, so that anyone who tries will fall through?_

Even though he stood at the exact same shore where Ser Amory Lorch had slaughtered almost all of them at the holdfast,neither the lake, King’s Road nor the Riverlands looked anything like the hell it was back then. The winter lake seemed peaceful, like a winter haven, a land of fantasy and fairytales. It took the dead of winter to finally have some harmony here. And then he heard the howling. It sounded close, but he knew it must have come from the western shore. Gendry shivered. In the Riverlands the woods only knew two masters - wolves and the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood was gone, and only the wolves were left. _Strange_ , Gendry thought, _none of the Brotherhood were ever attacked by the wolves_ , even though they had come across remains of Lannister or Frey foragers eaten and mauled by wolves. Once, they found a poor sheepherder slaughtered. _Was that because of Nymeria? Nymeria and a part of her pack hunt the Kingswood south of King’s Landing now_. He realized that without Nymeria to lead, the remaining wolves might not be as friendly to their armies.

Ser Tywin Peake slapped him on the shoulder. “Are you coming to the commander tent for supper?” Tywin had light brown curls, the color of brass, that cropped his head like a coronet, and green eyes, which he probably got from his mother Margot Lannister.

Gendry nodded, “Shortly, yes. Any new of the latest scouts?”

“We’ll hear it there. Some have not returned, though they have been expected back for at least two or three days.”

 _Wolves or winged knights of the Vale caught them_ , Gendry thought. He turned and followed Ser Peake towards the central tent in the camp where he regularly joined the other commanders to eat and discuss strategy. They were close to Harrenhall now, and how they could approach it safely without walking into a trap of Lord Baelish and getting slaughtered was their main concern. Lem, Rogo, Ser Daryl Trant, Lord Raymund Connington and Lord Donnel Swann stood gathered around a map laid across the small table.

“Ah, just the man we need,” said Lem. He dropped his finger just north of the God’s Eye, on Harrenhall. “At least twenty thousand men of the Vale are gathered there now, and still more are coming in. It appears that the sole Vale houses that are missing are those more of the North, the Three Sisters and the Fingers. Most likely those will move straight for the east bank of the Green Fork, later on.”

“How many would that make in total?” Gendry whispered to Lord Raymund Connington.

Raymund’s steely blue eyes appraised Gendry. It was said he took much after his late uncle Lord Jon Connington, who had died of grayscale. After Raymund’s older brother Ronnet had died fighting Aegon, Raymund became Jon’s heir. “They pretty much make for another ten thousand, so it seems they’re bringing thirty thousand to the Riverlands.”

Gendry whistled appreciatively, but inwardly cursing that amount of soldiers against Arya. “Is that all of their capacity?”

“No,” said Lord Donnel Swann. He was a big breasted, muscled man with a sandy colored beard and light blue eyes . “If they want they could field over forty thousand.”

“They could have won the war for the Wolf several years ago, had they joined,” Gendry said softly.

“Aye,” agreed Lem. “And they have the food too. Lord Baelish has been stocking up on the Vale harvests for years, and selling it for outrageous high prices.”

Tywin Peake muttered, “He’s the one who shits gold now, they say - food and gold.”

They poured over the map and asked Gendry all he knew and remembered about Harrenhall and the God’s Eye. He told them about the guardtower south of the lake, where it joined the southern river. “The tower itself withstood Ser Amory Lorch’s soldiers, even the fire, but they slaughtered everyone outside of it. Arya, Hot Pie and I managed to escape through a tunnel.”

Lem scratched his winter beard. “With a small amount of soldiers, Harrenhall is indefensible, but if Lord Baelish has twenty thousand we can never hope to win. We must send riders and agree to meet with the Vale commanders and Baelish afield.”

“Would he attack us?” asked Ser Daryl Trant.

Gendry shook his head. “I doubt it. We received the information he wants Princess Arya dead, not the Queen's company. He regards Arya as a rival to Lady Sansa.”

Ser Daryl Trant agreed. "Baelish isn't stupid. If Queen Daenerys would learn one of her armies was hacked into pieces by Baelish, before it ever reached the Twins, he can kiss the Eyrie goodbye. It may be impregnable from the ground, but from the air? It would burn as easily as Sunspear. He would only need to look at Harrenhal to remind himself what a dragon could do."

Lord Swann grumbled, "That was Balerion, the Black Dread."

"And what would you call Drogon then? The Pink Dove?" Tywin Peake bit back.

"Drogon big," Rogo chimed in. "Eat elephant in two bites."

Gendry did not like to remember the burned rubble that used to be Sunspear. "I don't know which dragon burned Sunspear, but little was left of it." He looked at Lem. “Has Lord Baelish been seen, Ser Richard?”

“No.”

“Maybe our informant’s plan worked. It is odd that he is not here.”

Ser Peake shrugged his shoulders. “That man never liked to make his own hands dirty much. Littlefinger’s not one to command an army.”

“Not all the Lords would ultimately stand with him, surely?” commented Lord Swann. “A man like Bronze Yohn might be brought over.”

“Against Lord Baelish, yes,” said Ser Daryl. “But against the Lady Sansa? She is the regent of her son, not Littlefinger. And as long as he has her in his power…”

“We could show the lords that have no liking for Lord Baelish that it is not Lady Sansa’s wish to oppose her sister,” said Gendry. “I have the letter with her seal to prove it.”

Arya had given it to him exactly for a case like this. He was finally able to read the letter for himself, albeit slowly and by murmuring the words to himself. He could also appreciate the style of handwriting for the first time. The loops, the curves, the dots and the tees on paper were exquisitely placed. Gendry would need a letter from Arya to compare the two styles, but he had no doubt that Arya lacked the patience to write with so much care.

It was agreed then that they would send a large enough party on horseback, with one of the commanders, to invite the Vale commander to their God's Eye camp. If the Bronze Yohn, Lord Lyonel Corbray, Lord Jasper Redfort and Lord Morton Waynwood could be swayed to stand for Lady Sansa’s wish, rather than Lord Baelish’s, then most likely the other houses would follow easily, which would give them an army of near forty thousand.

“And if not, at least Lord Dayne can halt any more Vale Lords from coming at Darry. He must have landed at the Saltpans by now,” said Gendry. Lord Dayne had sailed for the Saltpans with four cogs, carrying the remaining two hundred knights, five hundred longbow men of the Reach, another thousand pikes and five hundred light cavalry and a thousand infantry.

Lord Swann nodded. “Aye, that was a clever idea, to send him by ship.”

The mood grew more optimistic at the dinner table. Tom Sevenstrings plucked at his strings merrily, and young Steffon Seaworth who was Lem’s squire made sure their cups were never empty.

“Steffon, fill me up again!” Lem held his cup in the air and then grinned merrily at its refilled content. To Ser Tywin, he said, “His mother cried tears when the last of her boys left her in service of another knight." Steffon’s older brother Stannis Seaworth was one of Lord Dayne’s newly acquired squires who had often rivaled with Gendry’s squire Arthur. "But I reckon it will bring her a smile on her face when we return her eldest and the Onion Knight from the North to her, when all of this is done.”

Lord Swann said, “It’s the life for men – knighthood and war, a septon or maester. If she wanted her sons to be safe, she could have sent him to Oldtown.”

Ser Tywin muttered, “Oldtown was not that safe when the Ironborn raided it.”

“Or the Night’s Watch,” said Lord Raymund.

“Basphards, sieves and rapers the lotz of ‘em,” hiccupped Ser Daryl, already well in his cups.

Rogo looked up, when Jhiqui had translated Ser Daryl’s impertinence for him and whacked him against the head. “Ko Gendry is Night Watch. He no thief.” And he followed it with, “No raper either,” after some consideration of what Rogo and Gendry had talked about.

Ser Daryl tried to stand from his chair, waggling on his feet, to open his mouth against Rogo, but Gendry laughed. “But I _am_ a bastard.”

The other men roared at that. Peake pulled Daryl back into his seat, who was waggling his finger at Gendry. “A king’s basphard,” lulled Daryl.

“I knew that the first time I ever saw him,” said Lem. “I was patrolling with Tom and Anguy – may the Lord of Light bless his young soul - and there stood a scruffy, angry looking boy with a flayed man on his chest, challenging us all on his own. Do you remember that, Tom?”

Tom guffawed. “Called herself Squab!”

“Her?”

“Aye! Her,” said Lem. “Princess Arya Stark had escaped from Harrenhall after serving Roose Bolton as a cupbearer. That treacherous, slimy leech lord didn’t even know he had one of Robb Stark’s sisters. Good instincts, that girl. She had short hair, like a boy.” Lem lifted his hand in the air, gesturing height. “Only that small she was, but a brave, feisty little thing too.”

“But we knew there were others hiding behind a wall of a ruin,” added Tom.

“Aye, when Gendry and Hot Pie appeared on horseback, I thought, _now, there is one of Robert’s bastard sons, if I ever saw one_.” He winked at Gendry. “Although Robert would never have a little girl fight for him”

“Arya was no ordinary girl,” grumbled Gendry.

“Aye, I know. She broke my nose that day.”

“And I set it straight it again.”

The men roared, while Lem threw him a dirty look. “Hurt as much as when she broke it.”

“You bloody well know you deserved it.”

Lem shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. Now the funny thing was that we caught a Squab and a Hot Pie. And I believe it was Anguy who asked whether you were called Mutton Chop or something.”

Gendry nodded. “Aye, but I told him I was the Bull.”

“Sounds better than Mutton Chop,” said Raymund.

“Well, I thought, _Lem, that boy chose a sigil as close to the Baratheon stag as you can get_.” He chuckled. “Wherever did you come up with it?”

“When I apprenticed for Master Mott, he called me stubborn or bullheaded often enough in the forge. So, I thought of using it for my sigil, when I made myself a helmet with the horns of a bull.”

“Every bit of the stag traits. By the Lord of Light, Robert could be stubborn. But your Princess just as well, and she’s a Wolf.” Lem downed his cup and leaned on the table, eyeing Gendry. “You never had it with you – the helmet - when we found you. What happened to it?”

“Lost it to one of the Mountain’s soldiers, before Harrenhall.”

“Why did you never take the sigil up again, or that name?” Lem peered at him with hard eyes.

Gendry shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure really. First I lost that helmet and then I was traveling with the Brotherhood, and somehow forgot about it. I guess I thought it did not fit me after all, and well I chose to be Bannerless, didn’t I, and the Night’s Watch uses no banners either.” Then it was Gendry’s turn to lean across the table and challenge Lem. “So, if you knew who I was, why did you never tell me?”

“Seemed better that way,” quipped Lem. “You followed her around and guarded her like a dog.”

Tywin Peake lifted his eyebrows. “And yet you joined the Night’s Watch?”

“I thought she was dead at the time,” he muttered.

“Seemed to me it would have been cruel to tell you and push you onto a path, away from a humble, safe life,” said Lem. “And afterwards what good would it have done? You gave away the stag banner that wasn’t even yours at the time anyway.”

Gendry frowned. “Did Ser Beric know?”

“Pretty sure he did, aye, but he never said so. Anyway, we all made sure to keep you doing your part without getting you killed. And it got you knighted.”

The other men stared at him for a while, and an uncomfortable silence fell. It was not often these noble trueborn knights and lords heard stories of the rise of a base born bastard, even if he was a king’s bastard and they were regarded as equal commanders in this tent.

Donnel Swann broke the silence with his rumbling baritone and slapped him on the shoulder. “What we have here amongst us, is a royal Dunk the Second.”

Gendry grinned halfhearted, when his own squire Arthur ran inside, his finger pointing to somewhere outside of the tent. “They are coming, Ser. There are winged knights coming, with a white banner.”

“Well, shaves ush doing ist ourshelvesh,” drawled Daryl.

Lem’s head gave a curt signal to the soldiers guarding the entrance. “Get him out of here. He’s no good for anything anymore.”

“Go and fetch Rhiki, Art” whispered Gendry to Arthur. “She must look the part,” he shouted after the boy as he ran out again.

 _This is it!_ Gendry thought. His wife’s safety depended on this. His wife’s battle for the North hinged on this moment. Though he remembered it had been up in the air several different crucial moments in the past – when they formed her Wolf Pack in Braavos, the Dothraki at Nightsong and Queen Daenerys at King’s Landing. But never before had her plans relied on him so much. He had to look the part too. He straightened his shoulders, readjusted his mail, wiped his hand across his black hair bound together in the back of his neck and brushed his trimmed beard, while his heart hammered in his chest as if he was an anvil. For a moment he felt for his father’s warhammer hanging from his sling. He needed his father’s commanding presence for this.

Seven knights wearing winged helmets marched into the tent, surrounding a white cloaked figure – a woman, a young woman. She pushed the cowl of her cloak back in a calculated gesture with her white leather gloved hands. He had thought of Queen Daenerys as one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but this graceful, slender and tall beauty with thick auburn hair, high cheekbones and vivid blue eyes outstripped even the dragon queen. Gendry blinked at her. _The sister_ , he thought – _Sansa Stark_. She wore a snowwhite dress, with no speck of dirt on it, despite the ride from Harrenhall, undoubtedly through mud and snow. Her sleeves revealed the sigil of the Stark direwolf on one side, the Arryn falcon on a Hardyng red checkered background on the other. Above the dress she wore a perfectly tailored cuirasse, without much embellishment. On her, it looked like a jewel almost, rather than a warrior. She smiled gently at them, her blue eyes going from one man to the other, but the smile never reached her eyes. _This is what a queen’s supposed to look like_ , Gendry thought, _like an ice queen_. And just by her appearance alone, he understood why Arya had said that her sister and she were not alike. They seemed complete opposites.

"I . . . you're highborn then, a . . . you'll be a lady . . . _"_ he had said to Arya when he knew her as Arry, in her ragged clothes, caked and muddied chopped off birdnest hair, scabs and scratches everywhere, when she revealed she had been the Hand's daughter and Joren planned to get her back to Winterfell, before they got captured in the village looking for food for dying Lommy and whining Hot Pie. She smelled of mud, smoke and mold, and those were the better smells.

She had looked down to the state of her clothes, put her hands out, turned them about studying the scratches and dirt under her nails, stared at her bare, cracked feet. "My mother's a lady, and my sister, but I never was."

The way he remembered it, she had looked the cutest m'lady child ever. But he understood why she had given him such a reply. For him it had been the fact that she was highborn and grew up in a castle as a lord's daughter that made her a lady, even if she was caked in mud, blood and moss. For her a lady meant someone like her sister, like Sansa. Yes, he could see that now. Sansa was the quintessence of a lady. Arya was a different lady, his m'lady.

“Gentlemen,” Lady Sansa finally said, while she started to peel off a glove.

Gendry stepped forward and bowed his head. “Lady Sansa, you are very welcome.”

He felt her eyes on him, measuring and calculating. When he looked up and met her studious icy blue gaze in that almost unearthly bedazzling face, for a moment he felt as if put under a spell. Her eyes widened and the corners of her pink lips lifted slightly. “You must be my good brother, Ser Gendry Baratheon.”

He felt like an oaf. “I am, my lady.” But his deep voice betrayed nothing of his feelings.

“And my sister?” Her voice sounded like the sing song of a bird. He could hear longing and hope in that voice. And he could imagine her laugh how it was supposed to sound, ringing in the halls at court.

Gendry swallowed, just as Arthur led Rhiki in, all dressed up like a noblewoman with Arya’s direwolf cloak. Sansa turned slowly around to look at the girl being brought inside. Gendry scraped his throat. “Unfortunately, as you can see, your sister is not here. We heeded your warning, my lady. She traveled by Casterly Rock for Pinkmaiden with the intent to reseat Riverrun.” His eyes told her, _I’m sorry_.

Sansa blinked and for a short moment her immaculate face betrayed a sadness and disappointment. But it was quickly recovered with a courteous smile. “I understand,” she said. “It seems my sister has learned caution.”

Feeling compelled to be gallant to this woman, who had ridden a day to be finally reunited with her long lost sister, Gendry smiled and held out his arm. It was not something Tobho Mott had ever taught him, and Arya was never the woman who would have abided by it. It was a mere instinctive response to Lady Sansa’s air. “Let us take a turn in the camp.” He even wondered where he had learned to talk like that. “So, we may talk and I can answer any of your questions you may have regarding Princess Arya.”

The smile that answered him reached into her eyes this time. _Thank you_ , they seemed to say. Together, they stepped outside of the command post, with the winged knights following them. There two more people of her retinue waited, a middle aged man with grey hair and a young woman. The stocky man had an honest face, with a squashed nose and square jaw. Lady Sansa introduced him to Gendry as one of her most loyal captains of her household, Ser Lothor Brune.

But the young woman by Ser Brune’s side caught Gendry’s interest instantly. She wore leather, male attire, much like Arya, but was much taller with coal-black hair cut short as Lady Brienne’s. And when he looked at her smiling, deep blue eyes it was as if he was looking into a mirror.

Ser Brune held the woman’s hand and in a soft, gentle voice, said, “My wife, Lady Mya Brune, Ser.”

She boldly stepped up to him and squeezed his biceps. “I’m your older half sister. By the gods, little brother,” she exclaimed. “You look exactly like my father when he used to play with me. What a fine, strapping young man, you are.”

Her mirthful attitude instantly put him at ease and his smile widened. His occasional meeting with Lord Edric Baratheon had always been reserved and cold. Lord Baratheon had seen too much of a possible rival in him, even though Gendry had no interest whatsoever in Storm’s End. But this young woman was a mix of Arya’s unreservedness and his own bold nature _. If the Lord of Light grants me a daughter one day, she may grow into a young woman looking like her aunt_ , he thought.


	33. The Chooser of the Slain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the very long wait, but I have been preparing for my finals next week and also did several researches to prepare for this chapter and those that will follow. I hope you like it nonetheless, and it was worth the wait.

Arya had not left King's Landing without answering one last prayer. In darkness, wearing nothing but dark garbs, her face smudged with charcoal and her scent masked by dirt, she had waited for him, dagger in hands. She had not killed all of Varys' birds with her sweetsleep. It had only been meant for those who were trapped. Those who were free to come and go lived still, down below, beneath the dungeons, confused about the fate of their brothers and sisters as well as Varys. The Lyseni girl had been nearly caught by Hot Pie in his kitchens when she tried to steal food for her fellow birds. Once Arya learned of the incident, she had prowled as a cat in search for them, and made sure to leave food for them where the risk of being caught was negligible. All of Varys' birds were without a tongue, except for the girl. It had been cat's eyes and ears that helped her hear the Lyseni girl's prayer. Blonde she was, around nine or ten, and like a mother she tried to take care of the others. She had prayed in her bastard Valyrian for her master's death, the spider, for he had returned to the Red Keep, planning, waiting and hiding in the darkness. "I would give anything I have or can to make it stop," the girl had finished her prayer.

After hearing such a prayer, Arya was reminded of the kindly man's story about the first Faceless Man in the mines of Valyria, before the doom. _The First thought it would please the Many Faced God as well as the slave's offering_ , Arya thought. The First killed the master and made the slave the Second of his new founded order. Varys was not the name the kindly man had whispered in Arya's ear, but she could not shake off the girl's prayer. _Perhaps I should tell Qyburn; have him dispatch a message to Braavos, so they can decide_ , she thought.

"It is not for you to judge," she remembered the kindly man telling her when she spied on her first assignment, the man who insured ships and their cargo, but put widows and children out on the street nonetheless after the ship and the captain perished. _But who does judge?_ Someone made the decision which target would please the god. Someone decided what price would suffice. _And that someone is not the Many Faced God_ , Arya realized. It had to be a priest, like the kindly man. "We kill good and bad people," the kindly man had told her. "All men have good and bad in them." _But some men have very little good in them, and others very little bad_. None of her assignments were of the latter kind. No, those kind of people only died by drinking from the pool.

 _I was an acolyte_ , Arya thought. _Of course, I was not to judge the target, only to perform the required task._ The First had not been ordered by the Many Faced God to kill the slave master. The First himself judged it would please the god. And it seemed to her it would please the Many Faced God if she killed Varys to answer the girl's prayer.

Qyburn had looked up from his books and maps when she entered silent as air. "A princess comes to say goodbye?"

She stared hard at him. "Not yet, but soon."

"More messages to be sent for?"

Arya flopped down into the seat opposite of his desk, and shook her head slowly. "No." The smell of books, parchment, herbs and potions reminded her of the waif's apothecary. Qyburn met her gaze squarely, in absolute silence. "You heard my nightly prayer at Harrenhall, didn't you? That was what made you offer me three names." He said nothing, but only nodded once. "And the price was the axe I threw."

"Just so."

"If I had given the name of a kind person who had done nothing wrong to our knowledge, would you have done it?"

A sudden glint appeared in Qyburn's eyes and one corner of his grandfatherly smile lifted. "A man was certain a girl would not give him such name. After all, he had heard her prayer."

Arya lifted her chin. "The kindly man told me that we do not judge, because all men must die, the better ones and the worse ones."

"Weren't the children whose prayers the princess answered the better ones?" Qyburn replied.

His question confirmed her suspicion – the guild assisted those who wanted to end their life themselves, while the assassinations involved people who had knowingly and consciously harmed others for their own selfishness. "I understand."

"Has the princess heard another type of prayer?"

She wanted to chew her bottom lip, desperately. At the House in Braavos she had learned to master that compulsive tick, but being around Gendry and using her own personality and face, it had returned with a vengeance. Still, she managed to refrain from doing it. "I have."

"Would it please the God of Many Names?"

"It would."

"Then the princess must serve," Qyburn purred.

"But I know him," she said softly, remembering the many times she had served as a cupbearer to the meetings between the initiated servants of her god. "I know him," or "I know him not," they would say to a name put before them.

Qyburn's eyes narrowed. "Only his name. But does the princess know him truly?"

She knew his name, what he looked like, what he was, and yet who could claim to know the master of whisperers truly? "I don't?" she asked with some hesitation.

And then Arya realized how silly it had been of her to presume that knowing someone meant knowing their name. The man who used to be Jaqen had known Chyswick and King Joffrey by name. It was the meaningful knowing that was abhorred, because it would implicate emotions, and that could make a hit messy. She searched within for her emotions regarding Lord Varys. She disliked him, despised him for the type of inhuman and treacherous being he was, for his involvements in starting a war that left the whole of Westeros crippled and wounded, still. And he would have plunged the realm in another dance of dragons even now. But she hated him not. Arya knew nothing that tied him directly to the death of her father. By Gendry's account Lord Varys had saved her husband's life many years ago.

"I know him not," Arya finally said. She frowned in thought. "Why did you recruit me?" she asked finally. Looking back at the events at Harrenhall five years ago, she finally realized that had been the true purpose of the man she had known as Jaqen.

"The girl has a rare gift," Qyburn whispered. "The Many Faced God has many servants, only a few of them are women, but only once in a hundred years a rare kind of woman is born, as his will come to flesh, a chooser of the slain, a wish maid."

"A what?" Arya asked.

"The Many Faced God's maidens know his wish. The First was one."

Arya's jaw dropped and for a moment she could not speak. "The First was a woman?"

"A man has said," nodded Qyburn. "Is it not so that when the princess first entered the House the kind princess gave a dying bravo the gift without instructions?"

Her mind wandered to the time she had begged for admittance. The door had swung open, but there had been nobody standing behind it. She had wandered around and arrived at the hall with the pool and statues of the many known faces of the god. A young man lay at the pool, and she had seen an empty cup perched at the rim of the pool. Thinking he wanted to squelch his thirst, she had dipped the cup in the pool and gave it to him. He drank and he had died, while she discovered his bloodied shirt. "I-I… I thought the pool only contained water and the man was thirsty. I did not know it was poisoned or even that he was dying from a gut wound."

"Just so. A princess could drink from the pool herself or inspect the man first and cry for help. But a lovely princess gave him the gift instead. She is a chooser of the slain."

"It was a test," Arya whispered more to herself than for Jaqen's ear. She had never before considered that she had been left to wander alone into the house as a child to a pool full of poison, a tempting empty cup, and a dying man at her feet. But someone had opened the door. The waif and the kindly man had appeared only shortly after the bravo had died. "You tested me, when you asked to bring you water on the King's Road."

Qyburn's eyes twinkled. "The first test, a man has said." He leaned over and placed his hand on her chest. Arya lifted her eyebrows at his hand on her bosom. "The wish maid knows with her generous heart who is marked for death. A woman has no need to find reasons, think or judge with her mind. She chooses and is protected as long as she does the god's will."

For a moment Arya felt dizzy by the faceless man's revelation. Three names to choose he had given her, for an axe thrown at a burning cage, and without even demanding her to become an acolyte as a price. _He would have killed King Joffrey for me, had I given him the name._ _He almost begged me to give Joffrey as the third name._ She remembered her blinding after she confessed to murdering Dareon, the singer who had abandoned the Night's Watch, as well as the aftermath of her killing Raff the Sweetling. Though the guild and the Iron Bank had turned it into their advantage, using it as an excuse to refuse Queen Cersei any further loan extensions, her test after that had been harder than Blind Beth even. Looking back, she recognized how each of those hits had only sped up her training. Those had not been punishments. Instead they had rewarded her with an expansion of her awareness, of her skills.

She made a decision then. "I need manticore venom and an iron coin."

"Does a woman wish the thickened version?"

Arya shook her head. It was not torture and pain she wished to give Varys, only death. He probably deserved an agonizing painful end, but it mattered not.

Qyburn stood and disappeared in the neighboring room, to return with a little vile. "Valar Dohaeris," said Qyburn as he gave her the vile of the precious and deadly venom. He pressed a coin similar to the one she owned once into her other palm.

"Valar Morghulis," she bowed.

Arya heard the paddling of little feet and heavier shuffling in the distance. _Soon_ , she thought. The steps of the Lyseni girl and the disguised spider neared, and just as she was sure they were about to pass, they stopped.

"Something is not right," Lord Varys said. His voice lacked all civility and sweetness she remembered him using to her in the Hand's Solar. His voice was harsh and raw. Arya heard him sniff the air, like a dog searching for prey. She closed her eyes, held her breath and imagined herself away from this darkness, and she found a cat. She jumped in its mind and raced towards Lord Varys, purring and rubbing against his leg.

"It's only a cat, master," whispered the girl.

Lord Varys bent down with a painful groan and scratched her behind her ear. His hand smelled of burned flesh, of fever and infection. He's sick, she realized, and hurt, licking his wounds here in the darkness under the keep. With a grunt, Varys stood and dragged his feet.

For a moment, Arya saw him simultaneously walking away from her as well as passing her. Quick as a snake, her wrist struck out and she nicked the hand that had rubbed her head instants before. Varys hissed as if stung and lifted his hand as if to inspect it, savor it. He took several more steps though, until he hesitated, faltered and finally staggered, before slumping down.

"Master!" the child cried in distress.

Arya stepped out of the alcove. The child whirled around at the soft sound of her step and shrieked, when Arya lit a flame to light a torch. Varys' breath was ragged, wheezing, as he slowly rolled himself around. The white of their eyes met. A wan grimace appeared on his lips. Was it a smile or an expression of pain? Arya could not say.

Half his face seemed black. The other half was an angry red with giant blisters seeping water and puss. "My… angel … of death," he rasped with difficulty.

"Come child," Arya said in accented Lyseni. She beckoned the girl and then held out her hand. "Your prayer has been answered."

"Why?" he asked of her, and then, "It… it … hurts."

"I know," she whispered back in the common tongue. "But not for long." The child had reached her, her eyes fierce and defensive and Arya noticed the glimmering knife in the girl's hand. "There is no need for that, little girl. No harm will come to you. The god accepted your offering."

A sound came from Varys, but the venom was doing its work. He could not form any words anymore, only foam. His eyes though told Arya all she needed to know. He was angry. They raged at her for not answering him, not giving any further explanation, not confirming her identity to him.

Finally comprehending, the little girl leapt back to Varys, the knife still in her hands, straddling her legs around his neck, while she tore Varys' mouth open and hacked out his tongue. The defenseless Varys made gagging sounds. "There!" she said in Lyseni, flapping his tongue in the air before his eyes. "That's for the others." She flung it away into the darkness. By then Varys eyes stared empty.

"Valar Morghulis," Arya said while she turned away from, leading the girl back into a world of light.

She had washed the soot of her face, taken the girl to her apartment and had Jhiri fetch food for the child at the kitchen. With a mix of wonder and angry distrust, the child watched her transform from a dark clad assassin into a proper looking princess as Arya washed and dressed. Though the girl had different features, Arya felt as if a younger self was staring at her. It had only been five years since she eyed everyone with such wariness and fury.

"I know you want to run, girl," Arya said in the Valyrian of Lys. "You are wondering what I want from you." Arya did not bother to ask for the child's name. She simply called her 'girl'. The bird would have lied anyhow if she asked, Arya knew. "I want nothing of you, but to hold to your promise to pay the price for the answer of your prayer." The girl's shoulders tensed. She would leap and spring any moment now. Arya smiled, understanding. "There's a merchant ship in the harbor, heading for Braavos. You will be on it, before nightfall." She produced the iron coin and held it out for the child to take. "This will pay for your passage there. The men will know where to bring you."

"And what will be expected there from me?" the girl finally spoke in reproach, eyeing the coin suspiciously. She snatched it out of Arya's hand nonetheless quickly and bit down on it to test it. _You will learn not to do that_ , Arya thought, _when you realize how it may cost you your life_.

"Them and you will figure that out together," Arya said.

"Who's them?"

"Servants of the God of Many Faces, like me." She hunched down and met the girl's questioning gaze. She could see the girl wondering, hoping. "You had a hard life, a forced life. You've done things you never believed of ever doing, things you would never confess to another. It's impossible to turn back to the life you may have had before. But you can use your past with the Spider to move forward. They will help."

The child had listened to her with big blue eyes. "What about the others? There are more like me. Can they come too?"

"They did not pray for your master's death," said Arya apologetically. Then she smiled. "But I know someone who may help them. Rest assured they will be taken care of. I know you prayed for your master's death for them."

Asher took the child to the harbor for her, and she had the other men of her wolf pack search for the remaining birds where the girl had revealed they were hiding. Meanwhile Arya visited Princess Arianne, where she found herself in the middle of an awkward situation – Aegon making an effort to be a devoted husband to her.

"Princess Arya!" said Arianne. "Come in. It is good of you to pay me a visit."

Arya noted that the Dornish princess did not include Aegon as being a host to Arya. But if it pained Aegon he was hiding it well enough. Instead his jaw was set with determination. "Welcome, Princess Arya," he said graciously from behind Arianne. He stepped forward and placed himself beside his wife. "How can _we_ be of service to you?" Arianne flicked her eyes sideways at her husband and huffed, clearly annoyed, but then she mustered her sweetest smile at Arya.

"Thank you, Your Grace and Your Highness." Open chests stood about, half filled with clothes. Most of them seemed to contain Arianne's possessions, but two seemed to contain male clothing. It looked as if Aegon planned to go to Dorne with Arianne. "I believe you intend to head South for Dorne, soon?"

"Yes," smiled Arianne. "I had my fill of winter and snow, and I am eager to start rebuilding my home – Sunspear and the gardens."

"We sail for Sunspear on the morrow," said Aegon, taking Arianne's hand. Irritation flashed across Arianne's olive tanned face and into her dark eyes. But Aegon had seized an opportune moment, for Arianne was too well bred to reject her husband's hand in front of Arya. Aegon seemed to know it, because he gripped her hand tighter and intertwined their fingers.

It seemed now to Arya that when Aegon had publically rejected Queen Daenerys' offer of marriage at court, he had meant it. After failing to procure Viseria as his dragon, and the fact that Viseria championed for Jaime Lannister at the Kingslayer's trial of combat against Aegon, he had to accept he would be regarded a Blackfyre descendant. If he still wanted to be a king of the realm, he needed to risk his life with Rhaegal. The dragon queen may have proclaimed her husband Euron to be dead, but nobody was certain of this. A dragon bonded to a dragonrider who was still alive would not bond to another.

"I wonder if you have room for a dozen or so children on your ship?" Arya asked. "They are orphans and have known severe abuse. None of them can speak, for their tongues were cut out."

"Who did this to them?" Arianne exclaimed with great concern, wrenching her hand free from Aegon's hold. But Aegon quickly slipped an arm around her waist.

"It matters not anymore," said Arya. "They are alone in the world." If Aegon was joining Arianne to Dorne, she did not want him to know that these children were excellent spies who knew every crack and nook of the Red Keep with the ability to kill. "Their former master has no power over them anymore. But I am pledged to find a better life for them. If I could take them North myself, I would, but it would mean taking them into battle."

"We have room for them," Aegon stated, before Arianne could speak herself. He pulled Arianne closer to him. "I think it would be a great notion. We should start rebuilding the water gardens, instead of Sunspear, for them, for the children, for the future, for hope." The last had been closer to a whisper meant for Arianne, while his lilac eyes contained the hope he spoke of. "Would you not agree, my princess?"

Stern faced, Arianne glanced at her husband, before meeting Arya's gaze again. But when she answered, "Excellent notion," her voice had lost its edge and her own dark eyes were softened.

Arya left the couple thinking that though their struggle of personalities and wills was not yet entirely over, half of Aegon's battle for Arianne's favor seemed won already. Raised to be a king, he had not taken being reduced to consort with grace. It might have been resentment and pride that made him seek pleasure with Petyr's whores, as well as prompted Aegon to finally reject the queen's offer of marriage. But he had taken the loss of his first child hard too. And it was said by people at court that the short time Aegon had been king he had shown affection for his wife. If he could adapt and take pride in rebuilding Dorne, and Arianne could find it in her heart to understand why her husband had such a hard time in accepting his loss, they might actually compromise and find their way to a loving marriage again.

Arya had departed from King's Landing only two days later than Gendry, with mostly knights and cavalry. Despite Lord Baratheon's words not to send his bannermen of the Stormlands with her, there were actually quite a lot of men of the region riding with her. These were knights who had sided with King Stannis, destroyed the Boltons and then were defeated by Queen Daenerys at the Twins. Many of them had been followers of the Red God, believing King Stannis was Azor Ahai reborn. But then their king and hero of myth was killed before their very eyes, and those that lived, bent the knee to the dragon queen. Now she was Azor Ahai reborn in their eyes, and King Stannis a lie. Queen Daenerys was not a follower of the Red God herself, but she had allowed Red priests to begin with the building of a temple in King's Landing where the dragonpit used to be. With the faith militant disbanded, the High Sparrow replaced by High Septon Luceon and the queen having dragons, the Faith had not dared to protest.

Many of these knights though muttered about having to battle in ice and snow again, even though they had chosen to be of her company of their own volition. She had inquired after this contradiction with one of theirs who seemed the least devout – a tall comely knight with almost white flaxen hair, pink cheeks and a ready smile.

"When we remained with King Stannis, even after the defeat at the Blackwater and followed him North, we lost our lands, Your Highness." He was always very polite. "Queen Danaerys -may she live long and defeat the winter with her light - has promised volunteers would get their lands back."

Arya frowned and stared pensively at her courser's head. "Have you lost your lands, Ser Massey?"

"Please, you may call me Ser Justin, Your Highness. And yes, my lady," he smiled apologetically to her, while he stroked the blonde locks away from his flushed face. "I used to be the Lord of Stonedance. It lies south of Dragonstone and Sharp Point."

"I am sorry for the loss, Ser Justin."

Ser Justin pressed his lips together in a closed smile. "At least we share some commonalities."

Arya raised her eyebrows at the intimating quip, but refrained from commenting on it. "You were with King Stannis when he conquered Winterfell?" she asked.

Ser Justin shook his head. "Alas, no." And then he smiled charmingly at her. "The King sent me along with you to deliver you at Castle Black to your brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow."

"Me?" And then she realized he was probably talking about Jeyne Poole. She smiled politely. "You mean Jeyne Poole."

"Yes, Your Highness. We never knew, not even the Mountain Men or Lady Alysane Mormont. Imagine the consternation of many of us, when a Princess Arya Stark announced herself at court, looking nothing like the young woman we saved."

Arya felt tempted to joke that at least she had a nose, but thought better of it. It was uncomely to use another woman's misfortune so light heartedly. And yet, while she felt for what Jeyne Poole must have endured, she also still remembered her as the mean girl who called her names and told in detail how Sandor Clegane had butchered Mycah. _Gendry said she must have been envious of my birth and prospects_ , Arya thought. _Did Jeyne hope to take my place and expected her dreams to come true when she married the Bolton Bastard? How soon did she regret it?_ She realized Ser Massay was still babbling.

"I was King Stannis' envoy, my lady, and accompanied banker Tychio Nestoris for Braavos for the money the Iron Bank was willing to lend the king and hire sellsword companies for him." Ser Justin chuckled. "He wanted the Golden Company, but alas they had already conquered most of the Stormlands by then for Aegon."

Arya narrowed her eyes at Massey _. Tychio_. The name was familiar to her. "I know him!" she blurted. "A tall, thin man, with a pointy beard and tree-tired, purple hat." She had seen him visit the House of Black and White once, but without the recognizable hat, shortly before she was to kill the man from Volantis.

"Yes, my lady. I nearly forgot that you actually hid in Braavos the past three years. We could have met."

Something in the way he said the latter made Arya think she was lucky they did not. She smiled cunningly. "You would not have known me, Ser Justin." And then she asked, "Did you manage to return then as King Stannis requested?"

Ser Justin beamed with pride. "Aye, with several companies to make for twenty thousand men, better than the Golden Company even. I managed to convince the Company of the Rose to fight for the king and the North."

Arya frowned. She knew little about war companies. "What made them better than the famous Golden Company?" Everybody had heard of them.

"Your Highness!" Ser Justin said in mocking shock, but all the while grinning. "I supposed a woman of the North like yourself, especially one going off to war, would know the history of her own region." Arya blushed at his outburst, feeling her ears tingle with the heat. But Ser Justin patted her gloved hands holding the bridles. "No, matter, my lady. I'm sure such a highborn lady as yourself preferred dancing, singing and needlework over history lessons, before the wars began." That faded her blush instantly. "Several Northmen and women rejected King Torrhen's submission to Aegon the Conquerer. They went into exile and formed their company in Essos." Ser Justin leaned closer to her to say softly. "Many of them are riding with you right now."

Arya turned her head to watch the battle hardened knights and cavalry behind her. Now that she looked harder, she noted that several of them did have what she considered to be a Northern look. She had wondered what the blue rose on their breastplates had meant. Asher, who had been a sellsword in Essos, conversed pleasantly with several of them. "How did you manage to convince them to fight for King Stannis, not to liberate the North, but to help him win the Iron Throne?"

"Even exiled Northerners remember, my lady," he said cryptically. "Your brother Robb Stark's declaration of cessation, how he was betrayed by House Bolton, abandoned by House Karstark and the Ironborn invasion of the North, stories of wildlings gaining land and titles sent most of their blood boiling, enough to set aside their ancestral choice of exile." He waved his gloved hand in the air. "Beside them, I also hired the Iron Shields and the Maiden's Men. Ser Lonmouth's company include the Stormbreakers and Ragged Standards. Too bad that Ser Lonmouth and us fought at opposite sides." Ser Justin's blue eyes flicked hastily to his side, as if ensuring nobody else could overhear him. "And that King Stannis had no dragon."

Arya smiled at the comely knight, when suddenly another knight spoke up from the other side. "Has Ser Smiler been telling you all about his grand Essosi adventures, Your Highness?" Arya turned her head sharply at the voice that could cut steel. The dark-haired knight was lean, with eyes as cold as steel and his face spoiled by pockmarcks and scars. She could see that without those, he might have been handsome otherwise. "Has he also told you how his reward for it was gone upon his return to Winterfell?" Ser Massey's smile faltered.

"Reward?"

"He expected to be wed to Lady Asha Greyjoy. She was our prisoner, but she managed to escape Winterfell." Darkly the knight said, "It is a good thing you are wed already, Your Highness. Many here would attempt to claim you and Winterfell for their reward otherwise."

Ser Justin was positively glowering. With a measured bow of his head, he said, "Excuse me, Your Highness, I must be elsewhere. Perhaps the Slayer can entertain you with battle stories instead." Sharply, he reined in his horse and turned around to fall back.

"I take it you mean, you include yourself as one of those men who would have me for a reward, ser?" Arya said in an icy tone.

The man's face turned the first hint of a smile, as one corner of his thin lips lifted. "I do not claim to be otherwise than mercenary, Your Highness."

A chill ran down her spine. _He's made of the same harshness as Darkstar_ , she thought. "And pray, what would my life be like if I could have been your prize?" He still had not given her his name, and she tried to remember the house's name that had three deathmoths for a sigil.

"In bed, Your Highness, either to sheath my sword or deliver my children," he smirked. "Not playing at war."

It took all her self control not to strike out at the man's insolence. She bristled with fury. "At least I should like to know the name of the man who dares to be as impertinent."

"Ser Richard Horpe, my lady." He stared hard into her eyes. "All men are the same, Your Highness. All they want is a good lay, land to rule and a bloody sword. He just coats his intentions with courtesy and charming smiles." His eyes trailed down to her broadsword's scabbard around her hip. "Keep that sword at hand, especially at night. I don't care whether I kill people for a princess or a king. But there are plenty of knights riding with us who would not mind teaching a woman her place."

"I thank you for your concern," she retorted icily.

"My pleasure." Ser Richard bowed his head and turned around as well.

Usually at night, when camp was set up, Arya preferred to sit at the campfires of the men, each night a different one, rather than separate herself with her high command. These were the men who would be fighting, possibly dying for her family, for her brother, for her. The least she could do to them is get to know them, learn their stories, but also be assured they would not rape and pillage as some of her brother's men had done. There were many men like Ser Massey and Ser Horpe who saw this campaign as their last opportunity to gain back their lands. The brothers Ser Barton and Ser Edric Celtigar fought for Claw Isle, leaving their wives and children in King's Landing.

"My wife Allison told me to visit her uncle at the Wall," said Ser Barton. He was a tall, large, bulky fellow, with a bushy red beard and thick waist, of the age of her late father. "If you can march all the way to Winterfell, she said, you may just as well visit him. Is it far from Winterfell, my lady?" the man said with doubt in his voice.

"A few weeks, certainly."

His younger brother Ser Edric waved his hand at him in dismissal. "For that sour, fierce tempered man? Do you remember him when he visited King's Landing five years ago, going on about dead man living and attacking his Lord Commander, and how the hand he brought along as evidence had gone to dust. He could not even enjoy the fact that the Old Bear had given him some time off from the wall and an opportunity to visit with his family."

Ser Barton nodded. "That's true. Even his brother, my good-father, Lord Maford Thorn doesn't like him much. When he finally left, Lord Maford said, I hope he stays at his Wall."

The young boy sitting beside him had the same red hair. He looked about ten, Arya thought. "I remember him. He would pull me in his lap and tell me all about the Wall and rangings. I really want to see it for myself, father."

Ser Edric laughed. "Watch out, brother! If you're not careful, young Brett here might volunteer for the Night's Watch."

Ser Barton shook his head with a grin and mussed his son's hair, like Jon used to do with her. "He knows he's heir after me, don't you Brett?" Young Brett nodded, but his face betrayed that he thought the Night's Watch might be more exciting than being heir of nothing really. "Your Ardon might though," said Ser Barton to Ser Edric. "I caught him and my Brandon playing Watcher on the Wall. Brandon was the wildling."

"In the North, joining the Night's Watch is an honor," Arya finally said. "My uncle Benjen Stark is a ranger, and my … brother is Lord Commander."

"We heard Jon Snow was killed," said Ser Edric skeptically. "And several of the Queen's Men had been killed too."

Arya's smile stiffened. "I don't know about the latter, but Jon Snow is very much alive."

"Ser Allister, my wife's uncle, joined the Wall because he was deemed a traitor for defending King's Landing when Tywin Lannister sacked it. It might be that the Lords of the North regard the Watch as an honorable, my lady. But here, down South, it's the place where traitors and criminals are sent."

"And orphan boys," Arya added, remembering the men and boys she had traveled with on King's Road under Yoren's lead.

"Aye," said Ser Edric. "Weren't the two elder Kettlebacks sent there as well, brother? After the High Sparrow had the youngest executed for murdering the old High Septon?"

"Yes, the Oswalds or Osfryds something," said Ser Barton. Brett Celtigar was yawning and his father put an arm around him. "He's my eldest, my lady," the burly man explained to Arya. "And I've taken him on as my own squire."

Arya had smiled and nodded, bid them a good night and sauntered off to her Dothraki tent, when she noticed her mountain men sharing drinks with two elder knights. One had a big belly, stretching the laces of his doeskin jerkin so much that she could see the skin and hair peek out. He had a shaggy, golden beard. His green shield with a brown chief was dented and gouged by a battle-axe.

"My pour gelding would be so sorry she misses out on this. She had rheumy eyes, but she served me well at Blackwater Bay, that she did! Aye, that she did. Wasn't it so, Ser Illifer?" the old knight asked the narrow faced man seated next to him.

"Aye," said Ser Illifer. He was older than the fat one. His shield of gold and ermine gyronny barely looked better. "But it was the winter that did him in, Ser Creighton."

Hugo Wull passed a skin to them. "It will be our last winter too."

Black Donnel Flint noticed her and rose. "Princess, come warm yourself at our fire."

The two older knights looked up startled and when they saw her, their eyes widened, and they instantly went on their knees, their heads bowed. "Your Highness, this is too much honor," mumbled Ser Creighton.

Arya smiled amused at such chivalry. "Rise, good men. There is no need for this. Sit and enjoy my men's wine." She could hear Ser Illifer's joints creaking and cracking as he got up on his feet again. Big Morgan Liddle shoved spry Norrey the Younger in his side, almost sending him flying, to make room for her on the felled tree they used as a bench. She thanked them and wriggled in between them.

"Ser Creighton and Ser Illifer fought at Blackwater Bay, Princess," said Duncan Tuttle.

"Aye," said Ser Creighton. "They sing of my deeds. I killed twelve men that day, one of them was Ser Herbet Bolling."

Arya smiled and soon the two old hedge knights gave her a colorful description of the fighting, how Stannis' fleet went up in flame from the wildfire. "But," said Ser Creighton. "To be killed by fire is a ghastly dead, Your Highness. I may have slain twelve men that day, but Ser Illifer and myself we pitied the men drowning in a river of fire. I managed to pull at least seven from the boiling waters. Ser Illifer here, he saved two more."

Ser Illifer drank from the skin that was passed around and nodded, before saying. "Aye, we did. I remember the one that gave me his pouch with bones." Ser Illifer pulled out a small bag with a cord big enough to serve as a necklace revealed its contents, holding it out for Arya to see.

She remembered the many times she had washed the bodies of the death in Braavos. "I think those are the bones of fingertips."

Ser Illifer gingerly put them back in the pouch. "Aye, my fair lady, all that was left of Ser Duncan after the tragedy of Summerhall." He stuffed it back in his pockets. "I carry them for luck, Your Highness. Never failed me so far."

Ser Creighton touched the hilt of his sword, solemnly. "Your Highness can count on us. We will guard Your Highness with our lives, take the Twins from the treasonous Lord Walder Frey and install your brother back in Winterfell."

"We know the Riverlands like our backpocket," said Ser Illifer. "Ask the Lady Brienne of Tarth how well we served as her guides and guards when she was searched for her missing sister against those outlaws in the woods."

Arya thanked them, hiding a smile, not daring to show any hint of her skepticism. She had her doubts about the knights' stories, but they were gallant and friendly, and she guessed as poor and old as they were, joining an army with food was their way to survive.

When she told Brienne about the two old knights she had spoken, her eyes had widened and a deep blush flushed her cheeks. "Are they amongst our men? Oh my, they were very gallant and chivalrous, but I sneaked away in the night to be rid of them. My quest to find your sister, Lady Sansa, was one best done alone. But I felt guilty nonetheless."

That same day she discovered that Ser Herbert Bolling was very much alive, and well – a man in his prime. He had long black, curly hair reaching to his massive shoulder, and she thought he had a slight resemblance to Gendry and Lord Baratheon, the strong jaw, tall, broad and muscled, though his eyes were dark brown.

When she asked him whether he had fought at Blackwater Bay, he said, "Pray, excuse me, Your Highness, but you are the fifth person to ask me this already." He bowed his head. "I was indeed. I helped King Stannis to flee with the rear guard, but the ships could not take us all. So, once my king was safe, I surrendered and bent-the-knee to King Joffrey. My wife had only just delivered a baby boy half a year before, and I saw little point in fighting to the death, after King Stannis was safely gone for Dragonstone." He patted his destriers massive neck. "Has someone told you I was not there?"

Arya smiled and shook her head. "On the contrary, Ser Herbert. Some people think you were amongst the slain."

"How strange," was all he could utter.

"What happened to you afterwards?"

"I was ransomed. My uncle, Lord Bolling was so good to buy my freedom. He could not bear the dishonor of one of his family being a captive to King Joffrey. But ever since, I'm indebted to him. My wife Naela tells me I'm too stubborn for my own good. My own honor demands of me to repay my uncle every bit of the ransom. So, I fought alongside King Aegon's side and Queen Danaerys. I must admit my capture and ransom has beggared me to the life of a sellsword."

Every one of the knights she met had their story, about the grueling march of cold death to Winterfell with King Stannis. "Eight hundred horses we started out with and only sixty four were left when we holed up at the crofter's village, three days from Winterfell, Your Highness," said Ser Richard Morrigen. He was perhaps twice her age, with cool, grey pensive eyes, that emanated a calm she rarely saw in men, especially these men. He scratched his straw blonde beard, which was slightly darker than the long straight hair he kept no longer than his chin. "If the cold did not do people in, it was hunger, after we fished out the lakes."

Ser Lucos Chyttering beside Ser Morrigen said, "But the Battle of Ice made up for all of that, Your Highness. Now that was a battle any knight could wish to have been part of." He looked of age with Gendry, but otherwise there was no comparison. Dark brown eyes, brown curls and perhaps no taller than a head than herself. His torso was long in comparison to his short legs, as if his body had decided that after the upper half had grown there was no need to grow long legs anymore. Still, he was broadly built and his thighs were thick and bulky. She remembered how Gendry used to call himself the Bull, but Lord Chyttering's built matched the image fat better.

"You were there then, Ser Chyttering? " Arya asked.

Lord Lucos boasted his chest forward. "I was Ser Morrigen's squire, my lady."

"Two thousand Freys we killed that day," said Ser Richard Morrigen. "We'll kill the remaining two thousand gladly, Your Highness."

"How did King Stannis beat the Frey vanguard?" asked Arya. "I had heard that you were trapped in between two ice lakes on a land bridge."

"Aye, Your Highness. But there were heavy snowstorms, making visibility nigh difficult. One could stand at the entrance of the land bridge and not even see the crofter's houses or even the beacon tower when it was not lit." The man grabbed a stick of the firewood close by and drew two circles in the snow that represented the lakes, and more circles in the large lake. "The little islands of Great Lake had trees growing on them, the ice itself was covered with layers of snow, and we cut the trees along the shores for catapults. This created the impression that the lake was actually land. We built a fire pit at the central island with the hearttree, and doused the beacon of the watchtower. The King's men were split into flanks, seven hundred and fifty on each side, stationed at the rim of the lake, while the Northern clansmen on their garrons made the frontline across the lake, or hid in the surrounding woods to cut off Ser Hosteen's baggage train from the main. King Stannis was stationed with his guard on the central weirwood island, with the false beacon."

"Did Ser Hosteen fall for the trap?"

Lord Lucos nodded with a wide grin. "Oh, yes, he did. Initially he was cautious, waiting for his baggage train. But after three days ride it was well behind. Meanwhile the Mountain clansmen of our frontline took potshots at his van. They attacked, they retreated, attacked again. Nothing but skirmishes really. But it was enough to anger Ser Stupid into action, and his heavy armored knights on their destriers and coursers thought they could smash the light armored Mountain men."

Arya smiled slightly at the nickname of Ser Hosteen, remembering Hugo Wull had called him Ser Stupid too. "Stiff Stannis came up with that one," Big Bucket had said once. "That sour lemon hardly ever smiled, yet he could say the most blunt, hilarious lines with a straight face. The man had a sense of humor, believe you me, Princess, whatever anyone else says."

"The clansman retreated when Ser Hosteen's knights advanced to engage in melee, luring them into a hastened attack," Ser Morrigen picked up after Lord Lucos. "While they expected to break through and round up again to attack our flanks, our King who had been waiting on the weirwood island in the center of the lake pulled out Lightbringer and it shone as brightly as the sun, blinding the attackers. It signaled us to move off the lake back to the shore, and for the Northerners and clansmen waiting in the woods to cut off the retreat from the lake and separate the main from the oncoming rear."

With wide eyes, Arya tried to follow the new lines Ser Richard drew on the snow beneath their feet.

"That's when the catapults started to bombard the lake with stones," said Lord Chyttering excitedly. "We had taken down the real watchtower and used the stones. In the blinding light and flung stones, the Frey horses panicked and were routed in complete disarray. But most importantly, the stones wrecked the ice that had already been weakened by the many fishing holes we had cut into the ice."

Ser Richard Morrigen's voice was solemn when he said, "I remember the panicking neighing of the horses, the snapping of the breaking ice and the cries of men for help. Some, tried to jump back out again. Others reared and attempted to turn back, only to be driven right back into the lake or be butchered by us. They pushed each other down in order to crawl on top, or onto any semblance of flat surface. Those that clung to the ice and attempted to climb out, either found themselves grappling at crumbling ice, or our hacking swords. Before long there was only the eerie silence of the dead, the creaking of ice and sloshing of water. Bodies floated underneath the ice that was still solid. Dead things in the water, gazing up at you, through the ice. Both the water, the snow under our feet as well as the ice turned a bloody red. I never in my life thought I would see red ice or snow as far as I could see." He threw the stick into the campfire, and pulled his fur cloak tighter around him.

"We saved as many horses as we could though," said Lord Lucos.

Ser Morrigen chuckled. "Aye, we managed to save maybe fifty of those poor animals, hardly a tenth of what drowned."

"And those of the rearguard and the baggage train," said Lord Cyttering stubbornly. "Oh, how sweet it was. We had food!"

Arya smiled, until the dark haired man of the three moths appeared at the campfire. _Ser Richard Horpe_ , she thought dismayed.

"Your Highness," he bowed. "Can I escort you back to your tent?"

She opened her mouth to protest that she was not a little child to be sent off to bed. But when she saw Ser Morrigen pout his lips and Lord Lucos cower, she thought better of it. Her protests would make her appear exactly that. "I thank you, Ser Horpe." She stood, nodded at the men and accepted Ser Horpe's held out arm. "What's the meaning of this," she hissed at him.

"It is good for a war leader to know who will fight for them, but wise is the figure head who knows they stand above them just as well." Ser Horpe's cold eyes watched her with measure. "The Kingslayer asked me to remind you that you are not with your Wolf Pack, but an army."

Arya sniffed angrily through her nose. Jaime was one of her Wolf Pack. Being a dragonrider did not give him the right to tell her what she could or could not do. _Only Gendry …_ But she shook that thought away. "Ser Massey mentioned you as a war hero. You were one of King Stannis' commanders I believe?"

"I was."

"Ser Morrigen and Lord Chyttering told me about the Battle of Ice."

"King Stannis was a genial tactician," Ser Horpe said. It was the oddest thing, but Ser Richard Horpe's voice nearly sounded warm. "Little is known how much so. That Battle of Ice is what he was praised for, and surely many books will be written about it. Alas, any other victory in gaining Winterfell itself is often ascribed as bad luck for Lord Leech. But they could not have been more wrong."

"How so?" Arya asked. Hugo Wull and Norrey had told her how the Dustins had left Winterfell for Barrowton shortly after the Battle of Ice when it had been raided by Ironborn. And Lord Bolton himself had left Winterfell in the hands of a light garrison of Boltons because a bunch of wildlings had captured the Dreadfort with grapnel and hook. Yes, they had falsely believed King Stannis had died at the hands of the Freys at the Battle of Ice – and it seemed the irony of fate that he did meet his end at the Twins by the other Freys. But there was no doubt that he must have been extremely lucky in defeating Roose Bolton himself.

"It was all planned, Your Highness," Ser Richard Horpe said, while making her mind the pool of mud they had to cross. "Arnolf Karstark planned betrayal, and King Stannis had expected it. And yet he allowed Arnolf to send Lord Bolton the information Stannis wanted him to know – a map of the crofter's village. This kept Roose's eye on him alone and to underestimate him. Only the Lady Melisandre and myself were privy to the complete plan. Do you want to know more?"

"Aye, Ser Horpe, please tell me," she said while Ser Horpe helped her over yet another puddle.

Ser Horpe steadied her. "Lady Asha Greyjoy had four ships at Deepwood Motte. Two of them were beached and abandoned. While we took Deepwood Motte under the cover of darkness, Lady Mormont's men used that same darkness to set the two Ironborn ships in the bay aflame, as well as commandeer the two beached ships. It were Alysane's men who sailed along the Western coast under Ironborn flag. One beached at the Rills, another sailed into Saltspear, and then upriver to Barrowton and burned it."

Arya pressed her hand to her mouth. House Dustin had been faithful to House Stark since the Barrow Kings bent the knee to the King of Winter who took one of their daughters to wife. The same had been true about House Ryswell. Lord Willam Dustin and Ser Mark Ryswell lay buried at the Tower of Joy. They had fought with her father against the Kingsguard for her aunt Lyanna Stark. Her uncle had been fostered with them and a friend of the Ryswells too. "Why them? What did they do to deserve such a destruction?"

"They were loyal to Lord Bolton through marriage. Whatever sort of allegiance both houses may have had to your father or grandfather or even the Young Wolf King, Your Highness, those that had remained North, like the branch of Karstarks, had none for King Robb or yourself."

"Even Lady Barbrey?"

"Your wedding to the Bastard was originally planned to take place in Barrowton, Your Highness."

Arya was shocked. She remembered the lady as elegant, beautiful, even in her later years, soberly dressed in black and not unkind to her when they met. When she was a little girl and ready for her first true horse, instead of a pony, her father had taken her and her brothers to the Rills and they had visited Barrow Hall on their return. "You ride like your aunt," the Lady Barbrey had said, smiling. She had been fascinated by Barrow Hall, for it had been made entirely out of wood on top of Great Barrow, a large, grassy hill, where the First King of the First Men was buried. Jon had teased her that there was a curse on whomever who wished to rival the First King, turning any living man who pretended to the title into a corpse. But Robb had told her that underneath the hill the King of the Giants slept. The hill seemed big enough for it. But now she learned that same Lady gladly would have wed her at the age of eleven to the Bastard of the Dreadfort.

"Since Lord Bolton and Lady Dustin believed that King Stannis was dead and his army defeated, the men of Barrowton and Rills rushed home as soon as they received the news Ironborn had attacked and raided their homes."

Arya nodded. She started to see that Stannis had planned it all well beforehand. The king had wanted to win a war, not just a battle. "The same was true then about the Dreadfort."

"Yes, Your Highness. The wildling princess Val had agreed to take the Dreadfort with at least thirty men, by grapnel and hook, to then open the doors for two hundred Thenns. However, a banker from Braavos had come down from the Wall and informed the king of a wild spread rumor amongst the Night's Watch that the princess was missing with your brother's permission. Meanwhile Lady Alys Karstark was to be wed to Sigurn, the Magnar of the Thenns. King Stannis could not rely on the wildlings anymore to take the Dreadfort. But the banker had brought us six Ironborn hostages from Deepwood Motte and Theon Greyjoy."

"Aye, I heard that he was executed before the Battle of Ice." She remembered the young man as she had last known him – lean, dark, and handsome, but cocky and vain. He had already been a year at Winterfell, when she was born, older than Robb and Jon. "He was a traitor and turncloak," said Arya, her voice low and harsh. "My brother believed him to be a friend. He missed no chance to make us feel beneath him – I was no more than a speck of dirt on his surcoat - except for Robb and Sansa. Robb trusted him, gave him his freedom. And what did he do with it? Pillage, reave the North and capture my home; burned it down to the ground." Though he turned out not to be Kinslayer after all.

"It was not him, whom we sacrificed before the Battle of Ice," whispered Ser Horpe with a smirk.

Arya stopped at the entrance of her tent to face the knight. "Not him?" Ser Horpe's eyes flicked aside to Duncan Tuttle and Brandon Bole guarding her tent. She realized the man was unwilling to tell more in front of them. She stepped inside and gestured to Jhiri, "Please serve us some mulled wine, Jhiri. Enter, Ser Horpe." The knight followed her into the tent. There was no table, nor were there chairs, but she had cushions near the brazier burning charcoals. She sat down cross legged and gestured Ser Horpe to sit as well. Jhiri hurried over with the wine. Arya took of her gloves and warmed her stiff fingers with the cup. "You were telling me it was not Theon who had been burned."

"Indeed, Your Highness. It was Arnolf Karstark who was beheaded and then burned before the heart tree."

"But how?" said Arya. "Did nobody notice the difference between an old man as Arnolf and a young, handsome man like Theon?"

"Theon looked neither handsome nor young anymore, Your Highness. He had been Ramsay Bolton's favorite pet - tortured, lost his fingers, some toes, his teeth broken and loose, his hair white and brittle, and his manhood… Well, let's say, he could not perform anymore - bent and broken, stinking hours in the wind, and half crazy with fear of Ramsay." Alert, Arya sat up straight. Theon had deserved death for what he had done by all of Westeros' laws, but this sounded beyond cruel. "With the right surcoat, a hood and a cane he looked like Arnolf Karstark riding back home for Karhold."

"King Stannis let him go!" Arya said shocked. "But I was always told he was a man of duty and law." Rigid and inflexible he had been called. He even punished the smuggler Ser Davos, even though the man had saved King Stannis' life when he was going hungry at Storm's End. So, even men like Stannis could not be trusted to deliver justice, Arya realized sadly.

"Duty and law, aye, but not stupid," spat Ser Horpe. "Theon Turncloak was the only one who could return to the Iron Islands and claim that the Kingsmoot that made Euron king of the Iron Islands was unlawful. Nor did Theon go to Karhold. He went to the Dreadfort with the six Ironborn dressed as Karstarks. Mors Umber and his four hundred men joined him along the way. He knew the place, the secret doors, where the keys were. Theon captured the Dreadfort with the same cunning as he had done with Winterfell. He let Mors Umber in and later the wildlings who had shown up after all." Ser Horpe's voice lowered to that of a whisper. "Nobody know of this, Your Highness. And it is best to keep it a secret still. While the Karstarks were placed under arrest, King Stannis sent Ser Massey with extra six horses to the wall, but nobody riding them."

Arya frowned, staring into the dark red wine in her cup. Had been this the reason why Ser Horpe had called her aside – to tell her the truth of it all? "So, Lord Bolton learned of the wildlings taking his home, marched for the Dreadfort and only left Winterfell sparsely garrisoned," Arya stated the obvious. "How did King Stannis succeed in faking his own death? Did nobody ride out to see the truth of the battle of Ice from Winterfell?"

"We had the maester of the Dreadfort and two ravens for Winterfell in our possession," Ser Horpe said. "Maester Tybald wrote the letter to inform Lord Bolton of King Stannis' defeat, and warned that Arthor Karstark, his men, Manderly and Frey soldiers were on their way back as outriders, carrying our king's sword and head."

"But if the Karstarks betrayed King Stannis, why send them to Winterfell? How could he trust them?"

"Only Arnolf had planned betrayal together with the Bastard and Lord Bolton. His son and grandsons knew nothing. One of Arthor's sons died when they resisted arrest, the other was grievously wounded, having lost an arm. With only one healthy son left in the custody of our king, Arthor Karstarks was very cooperative."

"You mentioned Manderly. They helped?"

Ser Horpe shook his head. "Not with the fighting, Your Highness. They stayed well away from the battle." He curled his lip in disgust. "Instead they camped in the area. Lord Wyman had brought enough food to feed himself and his three hundred mounted knights in the wilderness. When we found him in his camp, King Stannis wanted to execute him for slaying Ser Davos." He took a swallow from his cup of mulled wine, before saying, "Only then did we learn that Lord Manderly had killed another man, for his son and heir who was a hostage. Ser Davos was alive and well, he said, searching for your youngest brother Rickon Stark at Skagos. Not until the boy was retrieved would Manderly lift a finger against the Boltons. But as thanks for slaughtering the Freys, he was willing to make Roose Bolton believe our king was dead. Once the majority of the Bolton army marched for the Dreadfort, the remaining garrison in Winterfell surrendered quickly." Ser Horpe put the cup down and rose. "I thank you for the wine, Your Highness."

Arya waved her finger at him. "One more thing, if you please, Ser Horpe. I have heard several different stories about the Bastard. How did he meet his end?"

Ser Horpe grinned. "In the crypts, Your Highness, eaten by his own dogs. Someone apparently had lured him inside the crypts and then sealed it shut behind him. Nobody even knew he was missing. They all believed he was out hunting for his bride and his Reek. Lady Barbrey discovered him." The knight bowed. "You know the true story now, Princess Arya. King Stannis did not win the war in the North by luck. Even the slow march on Winterfell had always been his intention. He did not want to end up being besieged in Winterfell low on food. Instead he lured a whole army inside, with food, and at the right time he chased Roose Bolton to the Dreadfort with forced marches and smashed him against his own walls, while Hother Umber turned on him the moment he recognized his brother's toot on his horn from inside the Dreadfort. He may not have been Azor Ahai, but he was a great tactician. He was the sole one to ever answer the pleas of the Wall, and already destroyed most of those involved in the Red Wedding. Many of us march again for titles and lands, but there are as many who desire to finish what our former King started."

Blinking, Arya stood and stared at Ser Horpe with a new understanding. He was telling her to use him if she ever needed someone who could keep secrets and set up covert actions. She had no personal liking for this man, but he could prove to be a great tool. "I thank you, Ser Horpe, both for your story and words. I would like to see you with my war council from tomorrow on, if it would please you."

Ser Richard Horpe went down on a knee, bowing deeply with one arm against his chest. "I thank you for the honor, Your Highness." Then he stood and she watched him leave her tent, his surcoat with three death moths swaying.

When they finally arrived at the western coastline with a vista on the Rock, the sun colored the sky golden behind it, as the bitter seawind ripped at their cloaks and hair and sprayed their faces with a haze of salty droplets. Jaime had told her that with the setting sun it could look like a lion resting. Arya put her head to the left, and then to the right, but could not see it. Perhaps she lacked the imagination for it, she decided. Perched atop a high rock overlooking the frozen Lannisport and Sunset Sea rose the pinnacles and towers of Casterly Rock. It looked almost tiny in comparison to the rock, but Brienne had told her that only Harrenhal surpassed it in size.

Arya glanced to watch Jaime to the left of her, atop his horse. She wondered how he would react in seeing his home. He had been lord of it for only a short time, left it in flight after killing Cersei, and actually had lived most of his life in King's Landing. But his face seemed uncannily expressionless. Like most men of their company he had let his beard grow, of which a large part was grey. Even his golden locks had streaks of grey at the temple, and the lines around his hard green eyes and stern mouth made him distinctively older than she always thought he looked. But then Arya remembered Jaime was older now than her father had been allowed to be.

Above them the beating of wings sounded and Viseria soared overhead to the harbor, scaring away the screeching gulls. So far, Jaime had refused to ride the dragon, though he would feed the beast sheep when they camped. And Arya thought that, in as much you could say such a thing of a dragon, Viseria was well behaved. More shrieks of protest from the gulls sounded as Viseria seemed to take some delight to fly wherever the birds fled.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Brienne said softly to the right of her.

Arya nodded solemnly. "It is." And yet it did seem strange, wrong even, that such monsters as Tywin and Cersei could have been born and grow up in what seemed so beautiful and tranquil.

"I always heard it say Tywin shat gold, but by the look of it he pissed it," Big Bucket Wull hooted, laughing heartily at his own joke.

Brienne gaped at The Wull's total lack of tact, though she should have been used to it by now. But Jaime's deep laughter at it broke all tension. It had a surprising warm sound, contagious. Arya giggled herself and realized it was actually the first time she had ever heard Jaime laugh that carefree. Jaime found it so funny even that he could not stop and he had to wipe at his eyes.

"Looks like them Ironborn can't pester those piss haired lions anymore," said Middle Liddle. The bay of Lannisport was completely frozen, and the town showed signs of recent fires, but also repairs.

"You're one to talk, Morgan, " Brandon the Younger said. "You don't even have hair to piss on."

Morgan grinned crookedly at Norrey. "Aye, as bald as a pinecone."

"The Ironborn raids here would have been not much of a success anyway," said Jaime. "There is a large honeycombed cave system in the Rock to take shelter with narrow entrance passages that allow no more than one person." He smiled at the Mountain men. "Lions know how to use mountains as well."

The mountain men roared with laughter. And Arya was once again reminded how glad she was to be away from King's Landing and traveling with her Wolf Pack again. She had missed the banter and big talk and carefree riding. And she hoped Casterly Rock would not bring an immediate end to it either.

Jaime wielded his horse off the cliff to turn back to the coastal road. "We'll be there in an hour or so," he said.

But even before that, they were met by a large host of men clad in red and gold. One of the bulky outriders had long blonde hair that must have reached as far as his waist, if it had not been waving in the wind. His beard and sidewhiskers were thick and bushy. If it had not been for the golden roaring lion on his red doublet, she would have thought him a wildling almost. The man beside him was slender and long of limb with dark, copper hair on a red courser. He seemed familiar to her. _Marbrand, Ser Addam Marbrand, the one the servant girls of Harrenhal swooned about._ The man sporting a shield with a boar looked big and strong and could have matched Gendry easily. And then… Arya swallowed. _Ilyn Payne_. He still looked as grim and hollow eyed as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cantuse's theories on how Stannis could win the complete Battle of Winterfell were my inspiration on Ser Horpe's revelations to Arya. The title "chooser of the slain" is based on my own developed theory called "Valkyrie for the FM". The word Valkyrie means "chooser of the slain", and they were Odin's servants to select who lived and who died, who won and who lost.)


	34. Update, final word

Unfortunately I have to announce that this fanfic ends with the previous chapter. For many different reasons I cannot endorse myself continuing this fanfic. One of the main reasons is because I have become an analyst of George's books and a theorist. The deeper understanding of George Martin's writing and the amount of work required to analyse his symbolism and narrative set up (as well as foreshadowing) just makes it impossible for me to combine the plot I had foreseen for this fanfic with his books, especially because I already am pretty certain that a lot of things will work out very very differently (such as the BwB, the Riverlands, the Vale, etc). And I'd rather read it in George's hand than my own.

If you are interested in analysis and predictions of what I think will happen in the Vale in tWoW, you can find my thoughts on my blog "Mythological Weave of Ice and Fire"

I am certain though that Gendry and Arya will meet again, that he is writing a romantic story involving them, but they are very young still.

If you just like my style of writing, and have seen Black Sails S3, I will start to publish a fanfic that expands on Eleanor's S3 arc (which is nearly finished off-line. I'm at episode 8). I also intend to publish the fanfic I once wrote regarding Mr. Darcy's POV of Austen's P&P story (after I scrub it up).

If you have questions regarding the plot I intended to write for this fanfic, I will answer such questions in comments.


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